


Swan Song

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst to the nth degree, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Pining!Sherlock, Series 3 AU, Sherlock's Violin, Shower Sex, Soldier!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 92,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if the stag night in the Sign of Three had ended a bit differently?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Opportune Moment

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally born from a simple desire that these two knuckleheads had actually acted upon all that sexy flirting in the Stag Night drunken scene, and it bloomed and grew and took on a life of its own. (In other words, it started out as a PWP that became porn with a LOT of plot)

Many social interactions may have been beyond Sherlock Holmes, but he was not an imbecile when it came to body language. Especially not when it came to John.

Despite his inebriated haze, Sherlock also knew that John was never going to make the first move. After all, he was getting married in short order.

The trick was to find out whether John really wanted what he seemed to think he wanted.

As they gazed at each other from their respective chairs, each having licked a piece of paper and plastered it on their foreheads, Sherlock could see it easily. John had spread his limbs wide and invitingly, and he was smiling at Sherlock with his eyes half closed as he touched his lips with his fingers.  

Sherlock paced himself, waiting for the opportune moment. He would give John plenty of time to back out, but he would have to make the first move. 

John sat up slightly, almost falling off his chair, and steadied himself on Sherlock’s knee. He shrugged exaggeratedly. “I don’t mind,” he slurred, half-jokingly.

 _There it is._ Sherlock quickly sat up straight and caught John’s wrist. 

"Don’t you?" Sherlock asked softly. He held John’s wrist lightly, just enough to keep him in place but not enough to stop him from moving away if he truly wanted to. 

"Sherlock," John said slowly, without the slightest bit of apprehension but with a touch of warning. Sherlock leaned forward even more, until they could almost taste each others’ humid breaths. John smelled of beer, wool jumpers, the scotch he had just been drinking, and... a slight undercurrent of Mary's perfume. Sherlock ignored the latter.

"I don’t mind either," Sherlock said, enunciating carefully.

John scrutinized Sherlock’s face with the slightly off-kilter gaze of the inebriated. Sherlock knew, however, that he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn't comprehend what Sherlock was asking.

It was his last chance; he had to make things completely clear. Knowing that it was partially due to the liquor and partially because he was about to lose John completely, he took that chance.

"I want you," Sherlock murmured. "I’ve _always_ wanted you."

John’s face faltered slightly, but he pressed lips together and glanced down at Sherlock’s mouth. Ever so slowly, giving him plenty of time to move away, Sherlock leaned inward until their lips just barely grazed.

It was like an electric shock. John's breath and pulse immediately increased radically, but he still didn't lean back. In a fleeting attempt at reassurance, Sherlock released John’s wrist and traced his fingers along the hairline at the back of John’s neck. John sighed, his eyes closing almost completely.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said softly. His lips brushed against Sherlock's as they moved.

"I know." Sherlock said, stroking the back of John’s neck lightly.

Without warning, John moved forward until their lips met. He kissed Sherlock with a fervor that tasted of desperation— of too many years of longing and of too many things left unsaid. 

Though his whole body was screaming to grab John and bring him closer, Sherlock let John lead. He had to make the decision to go further, or everything could fall apart. John pushed Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue, steadying himself on the arms of the chair.

They were still too far apart, and Sherlock was in agony. Apparently sharing the sentiment, John made a sound of frustration and pushed off his chair. He straddled Sherlock’s lap, one knee on either side of Sherlock’s thighs, giving himself the rare added advantage of height.

John grabbed Sherlock’s face with both hands, plundering his mouth with unmatched passion. One of his hands slid back to fist into Sherlock’s curls, as if to keep him in place.

Sherlock realized belatedly that he should make sure John didn't do something he would regret. It would destroy him if it went any further and John regretted it afterward. "John. What about M--"

"Don’t," John whispered, pressing kisses under Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock’s last bastion of willpower fluttered and died as he felt John's mouth on his skin.

John paused briefly, holding Sherlock’s face in both hands. “I’ve always wanted you too,” John said, his voice cracking slightly. “Why didn’t you…? If I had known...”

John's eyes crinkled at the corners, and there was pain in the depths of his blue irises. It was just enough for Sherlock to see what John could never put into words.

The aching chasm of Everything That Might Have Been opened before Sherlock like a vast wasteland. He shook his head, grasping John by the hips and nipping his bottom lip. Going on the offensive, he tangled his tongue with John's in that mouth which he had longed to taste for so many years.

Sherlock couldn't hold himself back anymore. He pushed John to the floor, and as he did their growing erections brushed against each other. Sherlock quickly cut off the moan that escaped his lips, realizing that Mrs. Hudson was directly below them.

"No, I want to hear you, let me hear you," John panted desperately, pulling Sherlock down again to kiss him deeply. Sherlock worked open the buttons on John's shirt, and John took the opportunity to start on Sherlock's trousers.

Once he had them undone, John palmed Sherlock's erection over his pants. Sherlock groaned against John's mouth, leaning their foreheads together.

"John," he gasped, "God, John. Please."

"I'm not going anywhere," John murmured. In order to bite back what he wanted to say ( _"aren't you?"_ ), Sherlock nipped at John's throat and started to unbuckle his trousers at the same time. John made little noises of pleasure that Sherlock filed away reverently into the most precious part of his mind palace, in the wing of all things John.

"Off," John said, trying to push Sherlock's pants and trousers down, and Sherlock leaned back to kick them off. John pulled off his shirt before tackling Sherlock to the floor so that he was now on top. As John kissed down Sherlock's throat, Sherlock ran his fingers over John's scar-- which he had seen before, of course, but had never been able to touch. He moved his fingers down, slowly, over the ridges of John's torso, until he made it to John's waistband. Sherlock trailed his fingers along the slightly-undone trousers, and slipped them down under John's pants to brush along his full cock.

John gasped and pulled back. His pupils were blown wide and dark, but around the black circles were rims of the deepest cerulean blue. Without breaking the gaze, John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt at an unbearably slow pace, and Sherlock's heart raced. All the frantic passion was still there, but John seemed to be determined to make this last.

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling John's hot breath unfurl on this face and the small but compact body pressing down on his own. He never let himself go like this, but now it was the only thing he wanted.

John had finally gotten all of Sherlock's buttons undone, and he trailed his fingers down the opening of Sherlock's shirt to his cock, which was already fully erect and leaking.

John glanced back up as he stroked Sherlock's cock once, a long pull, and Sherlock heard himself whimper. 

"God, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen," John said breathlessly, leaning down to kiss Sherlock again. He started to stroke Sherlock's cock firmly but tantalizingly, somehow knowing just how Sherlock would want it. 

"John," Sherlock panted, "Please." He palmed over John's erection again, and John let his forehead fall to Sherlock's chest.

He heard John swallow. "You..."

"Yes. Please, John." Sherlock knew ostensibly that he was begging, and though he would have normally been disgusted with himself, this was different. Somehow, with John, it simply didn't matter.

John looked up at him, his chin resting on Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock's heart seemed to stop momentarily at the sight.

John licked his lips, his eyes trailing over Sherlock as if he were something to eat.

"Do you have...?"

Sherlock faltered slightly. "No." Of course he didn't have lube. Why would he? His dormant libido hadn't exactly made an appearance in more than a decade. 

John paused, chewing his lower lip. "What about that vaseline you kept in the cabinet after you got burned from roasting too many eyeballs?"

"Oh... yes."

John's eyes lit up, and he grinned. He kissed Sherlock briefly before pushing himself upright and striding towards the bathroom. Sherlock watched him walk away, shirtless and with his trousers unbuttoned, still slightly in awe. For a moment he simply lay there, dazed, running his hand over his face. 

Once this barrier had been breached, there was no going back. 

He should stop them from going further. He should tell John that they were being foolish, that he had Mary waiting for him, but he couldn't. He was weak, and John wanted him, here and now. 

Pushing the rest of his doubts aside, Sherlock got up, discarding his shirt as he walked.

John emerged from the bathroom holding the vaseline at the moment Sherlock got there, and his jaw dropped. 

Sherlock was suddenly very aware that he was completely nude, and his cock was completely erect. Somehow, though, it didn't bother him in the slightest.

John's eyes trailed all the way down Sherlock's body as he made a few steps to close the gap between them. Sherlock ran his hand along the nape of John's neck to pull him closer. 

"God, how are you so perfect?" John whispered, grasping Sherlock's waist. Sherlock kissed John's forehead. "You must have been talking about yourself," he murmured into John's skin.

John chuckled. "Not even close." He started leaving open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock's collarbone. 

Sherlock leaned back, looking into John's eyes. "I mean it. I couldn't imagine anyone else.  I never even dreamed of anyone else," he whispered.

John's throat made a strangled noise as he swallowed, and they both moved forward at the same time to kiss with renewed passion. Sherlock pushed John forward, walking him toward Sherlock's bedroom and through the door until they hit the bed.

John threw the vaseline to the side, flipping Sherlock over so that he was straddling him.

Sherlock worked John's pants and trousers down his hips and John paused to kick them off, then leaned down to kiss Sherlock again. 

They were both completely naked, now, and Sherlock was undone. All of his skin was making direct contact with John's, he felt as though he were melting into him, becoming part of him. 

John rocked slowly against Sherlock, and their erections slid against each other. Sherlock moaned again into John's mouth, and he could feel John's lips curl upward into a smile. 

Reaching to the side, John grabbed the vaseline and scooped out a liberal amount. Sherlock lifted his legs up over John's hips, crossing them behind John's back.

"Christ, your legs go on for miles," John breathed, reaching down to massage over Sherlock's opening. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling John's fingers on him, over him-- and into him. John massaged one finger, then two, into Sherlock. It was tight, but he ached to have John inside him, and he made himself relax. 

"All right?" John asked, panting. Sherlock opened his eyes, taking in John's flushed face. He was watching his fingers enter Sherlock's body with amazement. 

"Now, I need you right now," Sherlock gasped. John glanced up at him and nodded, slicking himself quickly with more vaseline.

He paused a moment. "Shit. Do you want--"

"I'm clean. I have been for a long time," Sherlock said. "I know for a fact that you are too. Please. I want to feel you."

John's eyes darted over Sherlock's face. "Alright," he said slowly.  

He slid in, and they both gasped. Sherlock felt his eyes go wide, and John was looking directly down at him. Neither of them moved for a moment and Sherlock could feel his thighs quivering around John.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John gasped as he started to move.

Feeling as though he could barely breathe, Sherlock tilted his hips up and grasped John's arse with both hands to pull him deeper. Soon John was in to the hilt, and they were moving in rhythm. With every thrust he made, John's torso slid along Sherlock's erection, and within seconds he was completely overwhelmed with sensation.

"More, please, John," Sherlock begged.

John tilted Sherlock's hips upward even more, driving inward, and Sherlock shuddered. Obviously knowing that he had hit a sweet spot, John smiled, leaning inward to kiss him as he thrust, again, and again, and again. 

Sherlock was trembling all over, now. It was almost unbearable. His mind and body were on another plane, and he couldn't quite find the energy to care about what noises he was making or how he was begging John for _more more more more_.

Finally, the crest of the wave was coming to its climax, and Sherlock tried to shout a word of warning before his body clenched around John's. He screamed something as he came, and after a few more thrusts, John cried out himself, collapsing over Sherlock's body.

While both of them rode out the aftershocks, Sherlock clasped his arms around John, trying to breathe and ignoring the tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

After a few minutes, John turned his head to look up at Sherlock, resting his chin on Sherlock's stomach.

"I love you too," he whispered.


	2. The Morning After

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open slowly. He never usually felt groggy on waking; in fact, he always snapped into full consciousness right away. This time, however, he awoke in a slight haze, possibly from the lingering alcohol in his system. Sherlock registered, if only barely, the sensory input cascading around him on all sides. He could hear the curtains fluttering in the spring breeze, and could almost taste the droplets of icewater melting off the roof. There were echoing sounds of children’s laughter from two streets over.

But there was nothing in his entire sensory memory that could overshadow the sight in front of him: the slumbering form of one John Watson.

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, then opened them again, exhaling loudly. He was still there. 

John was tangled up in one of the sheets, apparently having attempted to wrap himself in it when Sherlock had kicked down the duvet during the night. Shadows from the rustling curtain danced over his face, lightening and darkening his skin in turns. His blonde hair, which had faded into gray at the temples, was completely askew, making him look ten years younger. He was curled up facing Sherlock with his head resting on his arm. All in all, from his completely non-empirical perspective (as at the moment that part of his brain had apparently ceased to function), he was the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Sherlock suddenly had the sensation that he was in free fall. His breath quickened, and his hand tightened on the sheet until his knuckles whitened. There was something very, very wrong with him. 

 _Is this why most people are such complete idiots? Is this why they all seem to function at half- or quarter-pace?_   He couldn’t imagine leaving this room or functioning at an optimal intellectual level for the forseeable future. Not now that John was finally in his bed. 

A nagging thought lodged itself in the back of Sherlock's mind. In the cold, sober light of day, John might regret what they had done... and he might leave.

As if hearing Sherlock's thoughts, John stirred slightly. Sherlock stayed completely still, as if he were a bird that would be easily frightened away.

John stretched his legs out a bit. “If you’re awake, how ‘bout you stop staring at me and go make us some tea, yeah? I have a bit of a hangover,” John said, his voice thick with sleep. Though his eyes were still closed, he reached toward Sherlock involuntarily.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock said, pretending to be groggy, but he shuffled closer to John. John caught him around the waist and pulled him close. Sherlock hesitated slightly before he reached up to smooth John’s hair down with one hand.

John’s lips curled up into a lazy grin, his eyes only half-open. “Good morning, love,” he murmured. 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.  _Love. Only a term of endearment, surely,_ he told himself. At the same time, he felt an extremely odd and completely unfamiliar feeling deep in his chest, like something was caving in and being filled at the same time. 

John had said _that word_  last night. Both of them had.

Completely unaware of Sherlock's reverie, John leaned forward to capture his lips in a kiss. It was slow and languid, nothing like the storm of passion with which they had embraced the night before. John slid his hand around Sherlock's waist and trailed his fingers up his spine. Though their bodies were already pressed together Sherlock tried to pull John even closer, trying to eradicate the negligible remaining space between them. 

After a moment, John tilted his head back, but he didn’t shift his body away from Sherlock’s. His eyes were still half-lidded, and he would most likely remain somewhat groggy until he had his morning cup of tea.

"It’s Sunday, isn’t it?" John said softly.

"Yes." John was stroking between his shoulder blades now, which was thoroughly distracting, so Sherlock didn’t try to deduce the point of the question.

"That means we don’t have anywhere to be today. We finished that case for Greg the other day, so unless there’s a triple murder or something today, we’re free."

John nudged his knee between Sherlock’s thighs so that their hips were flush against each other, and all Sherlock could manage was a “mfghnhh.”

John chuckled. “You want to know a secret?” he murmured, circling Sherlock’s hip with the pad of his thumb.

Sherlock sighed. “You can’t possibly expect me to deduce anything while you’re doing that.”  _  
_

Laughing lightly, John leaned forward until their eyes were mere inches apart. “I’ve never spent an entire day in bed with someone before." He grinned conspiratorially, rubbing their noses together.

A sudden chorus of  _what about Mary what about Mary what about Mary_ reverberated through Sherlock's mind, but he pushed the thought down into a dark cupboard of his mind palace and locked the door.

"Have you?" John reached up and traced Sherlock’s lips with this index finger. They were still slightly tender from when John had bitten them the night before. 

“Be more precise, John, you know how ambiguity annoys me,” Sherlock said tersely, avoiding John’s gaze.

John chuckled. “You know what I meant, you git.”

He did, of course, but the only times Sherlock had ever had sex were in exchange for a fix or as research for a case, and both instances were many years ago. He had never engaged in the act out of sentiment. Before John, Sherlock would have said that there was utterly no point. 

Sherlock smirked, attempting to deflect attention from himself. “Oh really, Three Continents Watson?  _Never_?”

John’s sleepy eyes widened. “How did you know about that nickname? Only my mates from Afghanistan—”

“Deduction,” he quipped, shrugging.

John’s eyebrow quirked upward, and Sherlock feigned innocence. “You couldn’t  _deduce_  a nickname like that. And anyway, you’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

"Is it working?" In one fluid motion, Sherlock pushed aside the sheet and swung himself up to straddle John, pinning his hands over his head. This gave him the added advantage of being able to see John spread out below him. 

It was especially convenient that neither of them had bothered to put pyjamas or even pants back on after their late-night activities. The cool breeze blew through the window, refreshing their increasingly heated skin.

"You definitely don’t fight fair," John said, grinning widely and not looking annoyed in the slightest. In fact, he was looking up at Sherlock as if he were the only thing in the entire world. Sherlock couldn’t help but grin back in what he imagined must be an idiotic fashion. 

"Your  _hair,_ " John said, giggling. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, attempting to flatten his unruly mess of curls with his free hand.

"No, don’t. I like it. It looks like I shagged you into the mattress." John giggled again. John Watson was  _giggling,_ and it wasn’t even a crime scene.

An overwhelming feeling of affection washed over Sherlock like a wave. “Well, you did,” Sherlock said, much more softly than he had meant to.

"My turn, don’t you think?" John said, raising his eyebrows flirtatiously.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat again. He filed fleeting moments such as these in the most sacred parts of his memory, in a polished wooden box under the floorboards in his mind palace. There was no telling how many of them he would get.  John could decide that this wasn’t what he wanted after all, and that they had made a mistake.

A feeling of possessiveness, and a hint of panic, suddenly took hold of Sherlock. Without thinking, Sherlock found himself dipping down to plunder John’s mouth with his tongue. He rocked his hips lightly against John’s at the same time, so their cocks slid against each other with just a tiny, frustrating amount of friction. Sherlock captured the light gasps and moans from John’s mouth with his own until they both were rendered breathless. 

Sherlock slid down until his head was level with John’s now full-blown erection. He held John’s gaze as he kissed the head, slowly, tantalizingly encircling it with his lips.

"Oh,  _god_ ,” John said, shivering. Sherlock pulled John deep into his throat, swallowing once, twice, three times.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock!" John gasped, twisting his hands in the sheets. Sherlock took a couple more long pulls, then bobbed lightly on John’s cock, proffering two fingers to John’s mouth. Seeing what Sherlock wanted, John sucked them in, rolling his tongue around them. Sherlock growled around John’s cock, and John squirmed even more, making a plaintive whimpering noise.

Pulling his fingers from John’s mouth with a soft pop, Sherlock trailed them down over his perineum to stroke over his opening. John gave up trying to watch and threw his head back against the pillow.

While massaging John with this fingers, Sherlock kept pulling his cock deep into his throat. John was panting recklessly, now, and moaning in a way that made Sherlock’s own cock twitch. But this wasn’t about him. This was about John, and making him stay.

Sherlock started working one finger into John, and the muscle clenched around him.

Sherlock let John’s cock fall free from his mouth. “Shhh, relax," he whispered soothingly, stroking up John’s thigh. John nodded and let his muscles flex then relax, and Sherlock worked his finger in, slowly, twisting it around to loosen the muscle. Finally, he pushed two fingers in, and John tensed again, balling his fists in the sheets.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock hesitated, not moving further. "We can just--"

"For fuck’s sake, yes, just—" Sherlock nodded, moving his fingers around, then up to the second knuckle, feeling around for—

"Oh, _Jesus_!" John screamed, wide-eyed, as Sherlock hit the bundle of nerves. He retracted his fingers fully, letting John breathe, then pushed back in. Slowly, carefully, he started fucking John with his fingers, hollowing his cheeks and using suction on John’s cock. A deep flush was now spreading all over John’s face and chest, and he was undulating his hips, thrusting against Sherlock's fingers and into his mouth. 

Then, abruptly, John sat up on his elbows. “Wait, wait, Sherlock, slow down,” he panted, “Just wait. I don’t want to come like this. We have all the time in the world.”

Sherlock pulled his fingers from John and sat back, slightly aghast. After a moment he nodded and looked over his shoulder, crossing his arms. That particular word choice was… unfortunate. 

"Hey, what just happened? Look at me," John said, still panting and obviously confused by his quicksilver change in emotion. " _Sherlock_.” John sat up and grabbed Sherlock’s chin, pulling him back.

With difficulty, Sherlock managed to glance back up. John watched him searchingly, holding his gaze until Sherlock’s heart had stopped pounding quite so much.

John swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he reached up to trace Sherlock’s cheekbone with this thumb. “Where did you go just now? You didn’t do anything wrong, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

For once in his life, Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just pushed John back down, resting his head on John’s chest and holding him tightly. They lay this way for several minutes, despite the fact that they were both still achingly hard. Sherlock listened to John's heart beating and the blood pumping through his veins. 

John licked his lips, clearly evaluating what he was going to say. “Are you al—”

"Don’t." 

John paused. “Ok. I don’t know what that was about, because I’m not a bloody genius.”

Sherlock squirmed slightly, intertwining their legs and pulling John's arm around his back. John stroked his hair slowly, taking a breath as if he wasn’t sure if he should go on. “But I do know… if you are worried that I- I mean, if you think I regret..." he cleared his throat. "I want you to know that I have never been happier in my life than I was when I woke up this morning. I want... I want to stay with you,” he stuttered.

 _I want you to stay too._ Why couldn’t he just _say_  it? Last night, he had been able to say anything. Now, when he actually had something to lose, words failed him. 

John let him breathe for a few more moments before he nudged Sherlock.

"C’mon. I want a shower. We never washed after last night and I’m rather sticky. It couldn't hurt this massive hangover. And I definitely need to take care of  _this,_ " he said, nodding towards his erection.

Sherlock clenched his arms tighter around John's body. "Surely that defeats the purpose of being in bed together all day?" he managed to mumble into John’s chest.

John snorted, then kissed the top of his head. “Whoever said that I wanted to shower by myself?” 


	3. The Three Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John in the shower. Nuff said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to much to Hannah (bbcjohn), my Johnlock queen, for being my beta on this chapter!!

After a few minutes, John seemed to realize that Sherlock had no intention of moving. He poked Sherlock in between his ribs. “Hey, c’mon. Get off. I can’t move with you on top of me.”

Sherlock let his air out in a huff. If he could, he would pin John down like this forever. 

Unfortunately that was impossible, so he rolled to the side. Almost immediately, it felt unbearable to no longer be skin-to-skin with John. How had he gotten addicted to it so quickly?

John, who was apparently oblivious to Sherlock’s intense desire to tackle him back onto the bed, took the opportunity to stand and stretch. Resigned, Sherlock rested his head on his arm, watching him from his new vantage point.

In truth, there was very little of John that he hadn’t seen at one time or another, due to cases, injuries, and sharing a bathroom. Those glimpses of skin, however, were nothing compared to the full glory that was John’s completely naked body. John stood before him unabashedly, as if it were already natural that Sherlock should see him like this. His skin held a slight golden tone that was somehow reminiscent of his time in the desert, though those years were long past. He had filled out slightly due to his recent lack of activity, but his compact form still exuded a kind of subtle power. As he moved, Sherlock could see the lean and well-formed muscles on his chest and arms.  

Then there was the scar. It was like a sunflower, or a supernova. A radiating pattern of ravaged skin spread outward from a central point, and it was somehow more beautiful than a nebula. Sherlock itched to run the pads of his fingers over it, to look at it up close and categorize every variation in tone and texture. 

His eyes wandered upward, over John’s neck-- there was a dark smudge where Sherlock had left a lovebite-- up to his slightly reddened lips. As he met John’s eyes, he realized that observing an awake John held an added advantage over his sleeping counterpart, because he could now see John’s irises. They were the same blue as the deepest parts of the ocean near Capri where his parents had made him spend one abominable summer. The only moments he had enjoyed were in the early morning when he would row their boat out to a small cove.  As the dawn broke, he would watch the colors of the ocean change, lightening from midnight blues to azure and cerulean and eventually to turquoise.  

John snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock’s eyes. “Oi, I know I’m fascinating, but this is getting rather… uncomfortable.” John looked pointedly at his erection and cracked a sideways grin, reaching his hand out to Sherlock.

Sherlock gulped, taking John’s hand and standing upright. John immediately pulled him down into a kiss, his eyes half-closed in lazy pleasure. For a moment Sherlock wasn't sure he was going to make it all the way to the shower, but then John stepped back and pulled him along.

They took the few steps from Sherlock’s room to the bathroom, anticipation crawling over Sherlock’s skin, and John released him at the doorway. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, watching John bend down to turn on the faucets. John glanced over his shoulder, smiling, and Sherlock straightened up quickly, pretending he hadn’t just been ogling John’s arse. 

Still grinning to himself, John stepped under the spray. The water started flowing down his shoulders to his thighs, and his hair darkened to a dusky color. He picked up a piece of soap and started lathering himself up. Sherlock swallowed, still unable to believe that he was allowed to see John like this.

“C'mere,” John said, closing his eyes as he turned around to rinse. Sherlock made himself move over to the shower and he stepped in behind John, who was still facing the faucet.  

There were small beads of water all over John’s back and shoulders, which Sherlock had a sudden urge to taste. He closed the final step between himself and John, running his hands around John’s waist and leaning down to lick a few beads along his throat.  

John sighed, leaning back into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock started kissing the water off his neck, working his way up to the soft spot behind John’s ear.  A shiver rippled throughout John’s body, and he turned around.  

Before he could move further, Sherlock dipped down to meet John’s lips with ravenous need. He had an irrational desire to consume John entirely and to be consumed, until there was nothing left of their separate bodies. John dropped the soap, reaching up to grab Sherlock by his still-dry hair.

Unable to bear it any longer, Sherlock pushed John against the wall, pressing their erections up between their bellies. John hissed into Sherlock’s mouth, pulling him even closer-- which was completely unnecessary, as Sherlock was already attempting to get as close as he possibly could.

Sherlock bit John’s lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood but not quite, and John let out a small moan. Sherlock kissed under his jaw and started sucking and biting at the base of his throat, wanting to leave a mark so obvious that no one would possibly deny that John was his and only his. Sherlock lifted beneath John’s thigh, and John wrapped one leg around Sherlock's waist, then the other. Cradling John in his arms, Sherlock supported his weight against the wall. 

Still sucking the hollow of John’s throat, Sherlock reached underneath to press a finger into John again. John groaned, his eyes fluttering closed as his head fell back against the shower tiles with a dull _thunk_. He was already panting, his cock leaking against Sherlock’s stomach.

“Sherlock, fuck,” John said, running his tongue over his lips.

“That’s the general idea,” Sherlock gasped into John’s neck, licking along his clavicle. He wanted to taste every single part of John, but there wasn’t enough _time._  

Still supporting John, Sherlock grasped both of their cocks together, and started thrusting upward. 

“Fuck, yes. _Yes_ ,” John breathed, grasping him by the shoulders. 

With every thrust, John let out little gasps, his head still resting against the wall, his face the essence of pleasure to the point of pain. It was probably the most erotic thing Sherlock had ever seen.

Unable to help himself, Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, sucking on each of his now-sensitive lips. As Sherlock rocked his hips up even faster, John’s thighs clenched around his waist and his fingers dug into his shoulders.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John panted, pressing one hand against the wall behind him to keep himself from sliding.

Those three dangerous words resounded in Sherlock’s head against his will: _I love you I love you I love you I love you..._  

To keep himself from saying them, Sherlock leaned in to bite John’s shoulder again. John gasped, his blunt fingernails raking down Sherlock’s back. The pain drove him over the edge and Sherlock lost control, starting to thrust upward harder.   

“Jesus, yes," John said, pulling Sherlock’s face up to kiss him. _I love you._ Sherlock ravaged John’s mouth with his tongue while he thrust more and more quickly.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John breathed, his body clenching around Sherlock’s, and he cried out, spilling over onto their stomachs. The rolling waves of his orgasm pulled Sherlock over the edge, and with two more thrusts he spilled onto John’s body, dropping his forehead to John’s shoulder. For a moment neither of them moved, though Sherlock’s legs were quivering under their combined weight.

“I love you,” John whispered into his ear breathlessly. “I always have, and I always will.”

Sherlock panted, his forehead still resting on John’s slick skin. _I can’t. I can’t. If I say it I’ll never be able to go back. When you leave it will break me._

John grabbed him by the curls and pulled his head upward until their eyes locked. He wasn’t expecting anything in return, but he wanted to make sure Sherlock had heard and understood. 

Sherlock could no longer ignore the look in John’s eyes. It was a look that they had shared countless times but had never said anything about. Sherlock had let it pass by, over and over, because there had been nothing lost in leaving something unsaid. Before the fall, he had never contemplated that he wouldn’t have more time. He had never thought that he could lose John completely... but neither had he dreamed of the possibility that he could have this. 

Sherlock’s lower lip trembled slightly. He knew it was the chemicals in his brain that were letting him forget the consequences of what he was about to say, but he didn't care.

“I love you, too,” he said slowly, the words feeling foreign on his tongue.  

He lowered John carefully, letting his feet slide back to the floor. He took John’s face in both hands. It was over now; there was no going back. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said, kissing one of John’s eyelids. “I love you,” he repeated, kissing the other. John sighed, running his hands around Sherlock’s waist and up to his shoulders.

“I love you.” Sherlock kissed his nose. “I love you,” he kissed each cheek. By the time he reached John’s mouth, his lips were curled up into a smile. Sherlock paused, his lips just barely brushing John’s. 

“I love you, John Watson,” he said at barely a whisper, closing the miniscule gap between their lips.  

When their lips had first met the night before, it had been like an electric shock. They still hadn’t come down completely from their recent orgasms, but this was another kind of energy, almost stronger, thrumming between their bodies like the crackling of power lines. The kiss, in contrast, was soft, almost delicate.  

Finally, Sherlock leaned back, and John’s soft breath unfurled over his face. “I know,” John said, his eyes half-lidded. He leaned inward to nestle his nose into Sherlock’s neck, and they just stood for a moment, the hot steam encircling their bodies, neither of them wanting to move.

 

 

 

 


	4. The Melody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed because I wanted to get it up. [Pun intended.]
> 
> Also, it's a bit longer than usual; it just sort of happened. [Ok I had better stop now. The puns are getting worse.]
> 
> Enjoy my darlings.

 What happens after “I love you?”

It was a philosophical question verging on the existential. For once in his life, Sherlock had absolutely no idea what was going to happen next.

They had both said those words. In fact, they had each said them more than once— and not only in the heat of passion or drunken bliss. They had now said them soberly, consciously, and deliberately. Each of them had known exactly what he was doing and what it would mean. 

Sherlock had never been in this situation before. He was flayed open, laid bare. Yet with John in his arms, it wasn’t debilitating. He was raw, but the chafed edges of the wound felt less severe, almost as if the feeling of John’s warm skin against his own had evened them out. 

After a long time, Sherlock kissed John’s forehead and released him, bending down to pick up the soap.

“I think you might need this again,” he said, raising one eyebrow.

John snorted, taking the soap and stepping under the spray again to quickly wash and rinse.

“Why are you so bloody tall?” he said affectionately when he was done, standing up on his toes to kiss Sherlock briefly. “Over under the faucet. Hands on the wall.” 

“Yes, _Captain_ ,” Sherlock said, smirking as he switched places with John.

“Hmm…” John hummed. “That might be something we have to revisit later.” 

Sherlock stepped under the water, wetting his hair for the first time and putting his hands on the wall.  He watched over his shoulder as John lathered the washcloth again. 

“What exactly are you doing?”

John raised his eyebrow in satirical mimicry of Sherlock’s incredulous look. “Surely you can deduce that. Eyes front, soldier.”

Sherlock snorted, turning forward again as John bent down behind him and started washing Sherlock’s calves in slow circular motions. It would have been incredibly arousing if Sherlock hadn’t reached orgasm only a few minutes earlier.  He closed his eyes at the sensation, somehow managing to resist the temptation to turn around.

John worked his way up farther, massaging Sherlock’s right inner thigh, then the other. Sherlock kept his hands pressed to the wall, though when John kissed the inside of his leg, he let out a little moan, shifting slightly.

Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what John was doing. If he wanted to have another go, he was going to have to wait a bit longer. 

“John, I’m not going to be able--” Sherlock started to say.

“Shh. I know. Stay still,” John interrupted, and Sherlock immediately stopped moving. _  
_

He could imagine John’s half-smile as he continued upwards, pausing to lather more soap on the cloth. As he smoothed it over the swell of Sherlock’s arse, Sherlock exhaled and tilted his head back slightly under the stream of water.

John chuckled. “Relax,” he said into Sherlock’s ear.

As John rubbed the cloth in big circles over Sherlock’s back, he left open-mouthed kisses along Sherlock’s shoulder to his throat.

In a flash, Sherlock realized something: this wasn’t about sex. This was _affection_.

Sherlock had never let anyone see him at his most vulnerable, or let any of his other partners take control like this, but he was completely at John’s mercy. His body was John’s to do with as he wished. Instead of using it and discarding it as all of the others had done, John was making him feel… cherished. That wasn't the right word, but no adjectives really seemed to fit. He would have to create an entirely new vocabulary to describe John. 

Sherlock sighed again as John kissed the back of his neck, running the washcloth around Sherlock’s torso to his chest and stomach, and Sherlock trembled with the effort not to move.

Finally, John reached down to slowly stroke Sherlock’s cock with the washcloth.

“Are you attempting to torture me?” Sherlock growled.

He could feel John’s breath on his back as he chuckled again. “Is it working?” he asked in mimicry of Sherlock’s earlier taunt, resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Yes, definitively,” Sherlock panted. He wasn’t hard yet, but he might just get there if John didn’t stop soon.

“Okay, you can turn around now,” John said into his ear.  Sherlock let his hands slide down the wall, and he turned around. His head was still under the spray and water was trickling down his overly-sensitized body. 

John smiled up at him again, and an overwhelming feeling bloomed in Sherlock’s chest. It wasn’t simply possessiveness, nor was it the warm feeling that he was now starting to associate with saying _those_ words. Neither could it simply be explained by the chemical cocktail flooding his brain in aftermath of sex. 

This was something beyond all of that. It was the knowledge that John was his, and he was John’s, in every way. 

Sherlock lifted one hand to John’s cheek, and dipped down to kiss him, softly, almost chastely. John slipped a hand around Sherlock’s waist to grab his arse, leaning into the kiss until it was no longer chaste.

Sherlock could feel the slight roughness of John’s cheeks, and he smelled his own soap layered over John’s more earthy musk. It was a heady mixture.

After a lazy snog, Sherlock leaned back slightly. John took the opportunity to kiss under Sherlock’s jaw. 

“You need a shave,” Sherlock said softly.

“Speak for yourself,” John retorted, sucking over Sherlock’s pulse.

Sighing, Sherlock ran his hand down the back of John’s head. “I prefer my doctors clean-shaven, remember?”

John snorted against his neck, turning to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. He suddenly started laughing uproariously, his whole body shaking with mirth. 

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock said incredulously. 

John looked up, wiping the tears from his eyes. “You… really have no idea, do you?” 

Sherlock attempted a stern look. “John.”

John shook his head, a new wave of laughter rolling through him. “No, I love how oblivious you are sometimes. I want to keep it that way.”

“You’re insane,” Sherlock said, affecting irritation. 

“Possibly. I’m here, aren't I?”

Sherlock faltered, not sure what to make of that.

Sighing, John tilted his forehead to rest against Sherlock’s. “Whatever am I going to do with you,” he whispered. 

Sherlock stepped back to turn off the faucet. The water was starting to run cold, anyway.

“I hope that some of it will involve more orders, _Captain_.”

John barked out another laugh at that, and Sherlock grinned ridiculously. If he could, he would make John laugh like that every day for the rest of their lives.

_Don’t be ridiculous. He hasn’t even said whether he is staying with you._

In the dark cupboard of his mind palace, Pandora’s Box opened just a tiny bit, leaking fear and despair against his will.

Sherlock hid his frown by turning away to grab a towel. In his mind, he smashed the box shut again and nailed down the lid.

He made himself smile again as he turned back… and something strange happened. Once he saw the beatific expression on John’s face, his own grin wasn’t forced anymore. He seemed to have an abnormal ability to revert to amnesia and delusion when he was in closer proximity to John.

It must be all the oxytocin. 

 

* * *

After shaving and toweling off, John had decided that it was definitely time for tea. Having put on one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, which was endearingly long in the arms, he had started puttering around in the kitchen. 

Sherlock went into the living room to rosin his bow, listening contentedly to the domestic sounds John was making across the flat. He watched as people passed by on the busy street below, preoccupied with whatever most Londoners were preoccupied with on Sunday morning.

Not for the first time, he wondered how many of them felt like _this_ about another human being. It seemed impossible to function normally, and the fact that his empirical brain had been overruled was unsettling. More than that-- it was completely incomprehensible, but unfortunately, love appeared to defy logic.

Sherlock placed his Stradivarius against his neck. As he started to tune it, his eyes fell on the composition pages on his music stand. He froze in place, staring at the sheets of paper. It was the waltz he had been composing for John and Mary’s wedding.  

He could hear John still moving around in the kitchen, completely oblivious. In one swift movement, Sherlock grabbed the sheets, crumpling them into a ball as he strode over to the fireplace. He threw them in, his fingers trembling slightly as he struck a match. Sherlock was still crouching by the grate, watching the pages curl and burn, as John’s feet came into view.

“Bit late in the year for a fire, don’t you think?”

Ignoring him, Sherlock crushed what was left of the pages with the iron poker until they had disintegrated into ash. Finally satisfied, he stood to see John holding two cups of tea and looking at him with a soft expression -- incredulous, yet fond. 

“You’re out of milk,” John said, holding one of the cups out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, frowning. “Well, you haven’t been here to buy it for me,” he muttered.

Rolling his eyes, John grabbed the newspaper from the side table. Sherlock watched as he walked over and sat on his armchair, starting to sip his tea and read.

Sherlock swallowed audibly, feeling that strange swelling in his chest again. John was once again in his chair, in 221B, and less than an hour ago he had been in Sherlock's bed. It felt like a dream that could shatter to pieces at any second.

“Are you going to play something?” John asked without looking up. “I heard you tuning your violin.” 

Sherlock blinked a few times, realizing he had been staring off into space without moving for some time. “I… yes.” He set down his tea and took up his instrument once more. 

John nodded and kept reading. For a moment, watching him, Sherlock had no idea what to play. He stood with his bow resting on the strings, unmoving, listening to the sounds of life outside.

He closed his eyes and retreated into the deep parts of his mind, searching for the places of light-- the places where he kept his most sacred memories.

Taking a deep breath, he started to play. His fingers seemed to move without his bidding, finding notes without his mind directing them. 

He played the gradient morning light reflecting on the silver streaks in John’s hair, and the deep waves of Mediterranean ocean in John’s eyes. The wood beneath his neck sang of John’s bare toes curled against the carpet, and of the crooked half-grin on John’s lips. The strings vibrated with the sound of John’s voice as he said 'I love you.' The vibrato echoed the small noises John made in his sleep. His fingers pressed against the strings with the same sweet caresses that John had made only minutes before.

Time passed, but he couldn’t be sure how much. Sherlock had no idea if the notes were even a melody or if it was complete gibberish, but he wasn’t playing any song he had ever heard or composed. It seemed to come from an outside source, as if it had been playing in the back of his head for years.

Finally, after the lingering notes of John’s fingers trailing down Sherlock's bare back faded from the air, Sherlock lifted the bow from the strings and twiddled it at his side for a moment. After a long silence, he looked up at John again. 

John was now on the edge of his seat, with his jaw dropped and his elbows resting on his knees. 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “I—I’m sorry, John. I don’t know what I—“ 

Before he could say anything further, John jumped up and crossed the short distance to Sherlock, pulling him down into a kiss so intense that it was obvious he had been holding himself back. 

Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock put down the violin and grabbed John’s waist to pull him closer. Their hips bumped against each other through the scant material of dressing gowns, and John gasped into Sherlock’s mouth, his hands wandering into the loose folds of Sherlock’s robes. 

Eventually, John pulled back. “What was that?” he asked breathlessly. 

Sherlock gulped. “I’m sorry, I’m sure it was complete rubbish--”

“Don’t,” John said softly, shaking his head. “It was-- it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard you play. I think it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever heard _anyone_ play.”

Sherlock smirked. “Well, you also like _Tchaikovsky_ , so forgive me for not bowing to your expertise.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Sherlock.”

It was getting harder to fool him. Sherlock sighed, resigned, and looked down at their feet. “I made it up,” he said under his breath.

“You what?” John jerked Sherlock’s chin upright, forcing his gaze upward.

“I _made it up_ ," Sherlock repeated, enunciating every word. “I improvised.” He stepped back slightly, retying his robe.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm to stop him from moving too far.

“You improvised? Just now, you mean?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Yes, John. If you would like me to show you the Oxford definition of improvisation, I believe my copy is here somewhere.”

John ignored his sarcasm. “What? How? How could you possibly make something like _that_ up on the spot?”

Shrugging out of John’s grip, Sherlock crossed over to lay on his sofa in a huff.  John put his hands on his hips, his indignation showing through. 

“Sherlock, tell me.”

Sherlock sighed, throwing his arm over his eyes.  After a long silence, he mumbled, “I played you.”

“You played… me?”

Sherlock snorted. “You do realize that you have an insufferable habit of repeating everything I say.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You should get that on a t-shirt.” 

“ _Sherlock_.”

“I played _you_ ,” Sherlock said, his voice muffled by his arm.

There was an excruciatingly long pause before John exhaled in comprehension.

“Sherlock...”

“Let’s just forget about it, shall we?”

Sherlock could hear John walking towards him, but he didn’t move his arm. John sat on the edge of the sofa, splaying his hand on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock realized, belatedly, that he had been wrong about being flayed open and raw before; _this_ was the most exposed he had ever been. He had inadvertently ripped his own heart out, disgusting metaphor though that may be, and had presented it to John on a silver platter.

Playing the violin had been a distressingly bad idea.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, lifting Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock blinked, his eyes refocusing on John’s face. 

“I didn’t understand, I’m sorry. That was…” John’s voice cracked and he turned his face slightly to the side. Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own. 

“I had no idea that you felt… _that_. I know you said… that you love me, but…”

Sherlock knew what John couldn’t say, because he couldn’t say it either. It was something far beyond love. The music had sung how his entire being, his universe, was oriented around John. It always had been, but he had never let himself see it.

Sherlock’s eyes darted over John’s face. “I’m not good at this, John. I... didn’t know how to tell you.” John turned back to gaze down at Sherlock, tears starting to form in his eyes.

Sherlock felt his forehead furrow slightly as he sat up on his elbows. “John? What-- why are you doing that? Did I do it wrong?”

John choked back a laugh, shaking his head. He was looking at Sherlock with that incredulous-yet-fond look again, but it was mixed with something else. 

“No, Sherlock. You didn’t do it wrong." Cupping Sherlock’s face with both of his hands, John leaned down to kiss him. "I love you," he whispered. 

Sherlock gulped, pausing for a moment before pulling John down on top of him. John made a little noise of agreement, kneeing himself between Sherlock’s legs, and they both leaned into the kiss.

“I might not be… quite ready… for another go… yet,” John said between kisses, tangling both hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“Mmm,” Sherlock mumbled. “Are you sure about that, Captain? It has been almost an hour,” he said, palming John’s half-hard cock through his robe. John growled, sucking on Sherlock’s throat. Smiling, Sherlock loosened John’s robe and skimmed his fingertips around John’s waist and up to his back, tracing his shoulder blades. 

“Jesus, Sherlock, you make me feel like a bloody teenager,” John said, untying Sherlock’s robe and kissing down his chest and stomach.

Sherlock’s cock was already hard, so John took hold of it by the base and teased the frenulum with his tongue. Without hesitation, he took Sherlock into his throat, teasing Sherlock's balls with his other hand at the same time.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his hand settling on John’s skull, not pulling, just stroking. 

With his other hand he pushed the robe off of John completely, making a mental note of the advantages of easily-removed clothing.

John hollowed his cheeks and sucked even harder. Then he released Sherlock, licking up the length of his cock once. Sherlock shuddered, his hips undulating, but he needed more. He pulled John upward, gasping for air as their eyes met.

“I want…” 

“I know,” John said, licking his hand and grasping both of their cocks together for more friction. He leaned in to kiss Sherlock as he started to move, thrusting his cock against Sherlock’s. Sherlock grasped John’s back with both hands, gasping for air. He was drowning in sensation, and he had to hold onto John to keep afloat.

He would never get enough of John. Each time they came together like this, no matter which form it came in, he wanted to be taken by John completely. He wanted to belong to John, and for John to belong to him.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He listened to John’s breath, feeling the weight of his body above him, as the excruciating pleasure radiated through his body. Finally he clenched himself around John with a shout, spurting over both of their stomachs. John cried out his name as he followed suit, collapsing onto Sherlock. 

After his haze had subsided slightly and he had his breath back, Sherlock chuckled.

“What?” John mumbled into his neck.

“‘Not ready for another go?’ Captain?” 

John raised his head, narrowing his eyes. “If you are going to call me ‘Captain’ in bed, we are going to have to establish some ground rules. You’re rather insubordinate, you know,” he said in a mock-stern tone. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled John downward until they were side-by-side.

John was obviously still in a post-coital haze, so Sherlock used one of the robes to wipe them off, wondering why they had even bothered to shower at all.

Once they were more or less clean, John stretched, making a little growling noise (which Sherlock tucked away into his mind palace) before curling himself more tightly around Sherlock. “Fancy a kip?” he said, yawning.

“Really, John? We just slept through the night.”

“You really don’t get this whole being-in-bed-all-day thing, do you?” John’s eyes were already half-closed, and he nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck, breathing deeply.

“We are on the sofa. And I assumed that ‘staying in bed’ was a euphemism,” Sherlock said with a touch of irritation.

“Bed, sofa, doesn’t matter. It includes kips between rounds of sex. I don't know about you, but I’m too old to go all day long, so I’m going to sleep a bit. Then I’m making you eat something. You need to keep up your strength,” John said, smiling sleepily. 

Sherlock made an exasperated noise, but circled his arm around John’s back to pull a blanket down over them both. John was already breathing evenly, and Sherlock settled in to watch him sleep. 

Laying in complete silence and stillness, Sherlock could hear the sounds of London filtering into the flat from outside. Feeling the weight of John’s slumbering body against his own and watching his relaxed face, Sherlock felt oddly content. 

He wanted to know everything about John, every single part of him that he had never been allowed to know before. There were so many infinite permutations of data to amass: how John’s hair looked when he awoke, sleepy-eyed, versus how it looked in post-coital disarray; his scent when he was nestled up to Sherlock; what noises he made when Sherlock bit his neck.

Sherlock could only learn one at a time, but he was greedy. He wanted it all, and he wanted to know it all instantly. He had already wasted far too much time. 

 


	5. The Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Hannah (bbcjohn) for being my beta and cheerleader! You rock.
> 
> Nothing else to note, except... I'm sorry.

On some level Sherlock was aware that the world continued to go on outside of the flat, but it seemed unimportant. It was as if a cocoon had been created around himself and John, insulating them from everything else, including the passage of time.

For the second time that morning, Sherlock watched John sleep. Such an activity would never have seemed worthwhile before, and he would normally be railing against the complete stillness into which he had forced himself. 

As he watched John, however, it was as if his brain had stopped whirling for a moment. He had taken stock of every tiny detail of John’s face as he slept, and now he simply basked in the feeling John’s warm skin against his own, snuggled close by the necessity of the narrow couch. 

John shifted slightly, burying his nose further into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his nose into John’s hair and allowing himself a self-indulgent inhale. He still smelled of Sherlock’s soap and sex. 

After two hours, Sherlock realized that he had probably better go to the shop if they were, indeed, going to eat anything. He hadn’t anything in-- not even milk, as John had pointed out-- but he loathed to leave John behind without waking him. He nudged down the sofa, staring at John’s relaxed face for a moment before leaning inward and just barely brushing John’s lips with his own. John exhaled, moving forward infinitesimally in his sleep until their lips fully met. Smiling, Sherlock leaned into the kiss, wondering vaguely whether it was considered to be taking advantage of John in his semi-unconscious state.

“Mmphhhmmm?” 

“Was that a question?” Sherlock's lips curled upward.

“What time’s it?” John mumbled, his eyes still closed.

Sherlock glanced over at the clock near the mantel. “Half eleven,” he said, bowing to the sudden urge to kiss the tip of John’s nose. A warm feeling spread from his core to his extremities at the half-smile that appeared on John’s lips. 

“I have to go to the shop.” Sherlock ran his hand around John’s back to stroke between his shoulders.

His eyes were still closed, but John cracked them open infinitesimally. “No. Don’t. Stay,” he mumbled. 

“I will be back before you know it,” Sherlock said, planting a kiss on John’s forehead. “Just sleep, my love.” Inwardly, he balked slightly at the ease with which the term of endearment had tumbled from his mouth. 

“M’kay,” John said, still mostly asleep. Sherlock carefully lifted John off his shoulder and rested him on the pillow, extricating himself slowly from John’s embrace. He stood up, trying to turn away but not quite managing it, as if his eyes were so used to being trained on John that they had forgotten how to look at anything else. He was quickly becoming the most disgustingly soppy person in the universe. 

Sherlock shook his head slightly to clear it as he pulled on his clothes from the night before. He would have to shower again anyway, so he might as well not wrinkle new trousers. He would never admit it, but for the moment he wanted to smell like John.

As he was pulling on his Belstaff, he peeked back into the living room. John appeared to be dead to the world. Before he could change his mind, Sherlock turned and flew down the stairs, light-footed. He would only be gone for twenty minutes at most.

 

* * *

John didn’t wake fully, but he sensed that there was something different. There was a vacuum next to him, which had once been occupied by Sherlock. He vaguely recalled hearing something about going to the shop, so he let himself slide back into a doze, imagining what he might do to Sherlock upon his return. 

He had expected at least a modicum of panic to arise at the idea that he was with Sherlock, but it never came. Of course, this wasn't his first time with a man, not by a long shot, but it had never been like this. 

The myriad protests he had made over the years that he and Sherlock were not a couple, he now realized, had been tinged with bitterness. Deep down, he had always wanted to be with Sherlock, but he had assumed that Sherlock didn't reciprocate the sentiment. In fact, he had never considered that Sherlock would want this kind of relationship with anyone at all, let alone himself. He had simply never seemed interested, but apparently, John had been completely wrong.

His thoughts drifted, and he considered how he would tell Mary. It wasn't fair to her, but it couldn't be helped. He would tell her calmly and rationally that he loved her, but... he loved Sherlock more. 

Sherlock had been his entire universe, and when he had ‘died,’ John hadn’t been able to breathe, he hadn’t been able to function. Like a drowning man, he had floundered until he had found an anchor to hold on to: Mary. That was all she would ever be, a substitute for Sherlock. She deserved more than that.

After a few more minutes, he heard steps on the stairs. John yawned, wondering if he had dozed longer than he had realized. Surely it would have taken Sherlock more time to go to the shop. 

The footsteps stopped at the doorway and John smiled, feeling a warmth spreading through his whole body. Sherlock was here, and they were finally together. It seemed incomprehensible, in some ways, that this had only been his reality for the past twelve hours. 

He stretched. “I think it’s time for more tea and some food. Then I’m going to suck you off until your eyes roll back in your head. Did you get milk?” 

“I would rather you not ‘suck me off,’ but thank you all the same,” a decidedly not-Sherlock voice retorted.

John’s eyes snapped open as he turned back to look at the doorway, where Mary was standing. She was surveying the scene icily, and there was a tightness around her mouth that only appeared when she was truly upset.

“Mary, I can explain--” 

“Oh, I think it’s rather _clear_ ,” she said, entering the room slowly and kicking the soiled dressing gown with her toe. She walked over to sit in Sherlock’s chair and closed her eyes, pinching her nose wearily.

John’s head was spinning as he tried to figure out what to say. _It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. Shit._

He flattened his hair with one hand, gathering the blanket around himself and standing up.

“Would you mind waiting for a moment? I think this is a conversation I would rather have while wearing clothes.” 

Mary scoffed, making a flourish with her hand. "Go ahead."

Without another word, John strode back into Sherlock’s room and got dressed with haste. His mind was whirling, the competing emotions fighting for his attention.

Sherlock was his, now, and he was Sherlock’s. The timing hadn't been ideal, but in the end it didn't matter. He had to make this right with Mary, but then everything would be fine. It had to be.

Steeling himself, John walked back into the living room and sat across from her.

“I had a feeling this might happen someday," Mary said acidly. “I was just hoping that you wouldn’t be so stupid as to get caught. But no matter. It’s time to go home now, John.”

John worked his jaw, trying to figure out what to say. The guilt was starting to wash over him in waves.  “No Mary, I’m not coming home,” he said quietly. 

He could feel Mary’s eyes boring into him, but he had to get this out. “I’m truly sorry that you found out this way. I am. But…” he swallowed audibly. “I--I love Sherlock. I always have, but I didn’t think he was capable of…” he paused. “I didn’t think he wanted me that way. Now that I know he does… it wouldn’t be fair to you if I stayed. I couldn’t give you my whole heart, even if I wanted to.”

Mary rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Please, John. You know what he's like. He'll get bored of you and leave you again, and this time, I won’t be there to pick up the pieces." 

John shook his head. _No. He loves me too, he said he did. I believe him. There's no way that song wasn’t genuine._  

Taking a deep breath, he stood, walking over to kneel by her side. He took her hand and looked her straight in the eyes. “I was going to tell you tonight. I know that no matter what, it would have been a shock, but I can’t go through with the wedding. I’m sorry, Mary.”

There was a long silence as they looked at each other. John expected to see shock or rage in her eyes, but instead he only saw triumph.

John frowned in confusion. “Mary--”

“I’m pregnant,” she interrupted. He dropped her hand, feeling like he had forgotten how to breathe. 

His voice came out in a rasp. “Are you--”

“Yes, I’m sure. I just got the test results, if you want to see them. I came straight here because you weren’t responding to my texts. I figured you were having a post-stag-night lie-in, but I couldn’t wait to give you the _good news_ ,” she spat.

She stood, crossing her arms and walking to the window.  “I just didn’t quite realize what _kind_ of lie-in you were having.”

John stood, swaying on his feet and raking his hands through his hair. _No. No, no no. Fuck._ He started pacing.

John's father had left them when he was very young, and his mother had never been able to cope. She had become an alcoholic, and his and Harry’s childhoods had been tumultuous at best. He had gone into the Army because it had some semblance of sanity and routine. If there was one thing that John couldn’t stand above all others, it was the thought of abandoning a child. 

And of course, he had always wanted children. Mary knew that. 

“How? How could this have happened?” he said, his voice cracking. 

Mary didn’t turn around. “My birth control must have failed. I don’t know.” 

John's heart was pounding and his brain didn’t seem to be functioning properly.  _  
_

“I-- I’ll just have to be a father to him-- or her-- from afar. I’ll pay to support you both and visit often. That’s all I can do, Mary,” he said, running his hand over his face.

Mary turned around slowly. “No, John.” Her face was a cold mask, and she suddenly looked vastly unlike the Mary that he had known for over a year.

“No?” John managed to choke out. 

“No. If you don’t go through with the marriage, I will leave England. You will never see your child.” 

John’s hands clenched into fists, and he saw red. Mary was giving him no choice, and she knew it. 

Apparently satisfied, Mary nodded and grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you at home, darling,” she said. Without further preamble, she strode from the flat. John collapsed back into his chair and dropped his head into his hands.

 

* * *

Sherlock lugged the heavy bags up the stairs, wondering for the upteenth time why there were so many kinds of milk. He had finally given up and bought four of them. Hopefully John would find at least one of them acceptable.

There was a little thrill running through him at the thought that John would still be in his flat, in a state of undress. He didn't think the novelty of it would ever fade. 

“John?” he called tentatively into the living area. There was no response, so he assumed that John was still slumbering. Sherlock walked into the kitchen, setting the shopping on the counter and shrugging out of his coat. He was about to turn around when John tackled him against the wall, pressing his body against Sherlock’s and kissing him desperately. 

Sherlock made a small noise of surprise. “It-- was only-- twenty minutes--” Sherlock panted, but he quickly gave up trying to speak. John growled, grinding their hips together and grasping Sherlock’s arse with both hands. He flicked his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as he rucked Sherlock’s shirt up, sliding his hands up his back.

It seemed… wrong. His kisses were sharp with want, yet tinged with desperation. It was almost as if he were saying goodbye.

A deep fear started to sink its claws into Sherlock’s stomach. With some effort, he pushed John backward by the shoulders. 

“John,” he panted. John immediately bowed his head.

Sherlock raised John’s chin with one hand, gasping slightly when he saw the deep pools of pain in his eyes.

“John. Tell me."  John shook his head and buried his face in Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock could feel his collar starting to get damp. John Watson-- the nerves-of-steel former soldier who could kill a man without blinking an eyelash-- was crying. 

Sherlock swallowed, unable to shake the feeling of dread in his very bones. He had known deep down that the past twelve hours had been too perfect to last. In his idiotic happiness, he had allowed himself to fall into the delusion that it would. 

“John,” he said softly. “Is it Mary?” 

John made a little strangled sound in his throat.

So it _was_ about Mary. He'd finally realized what a mistake he'd made.

“Well it took you a bit longer than I expected,” Sherlock said bitterly. “I'll admit, I thought you would go running back to her first thing this morning. No matter. I won't tell her. Just go.” He pushed John backward lightly, trying to break the embrace, but John didn’t move.  

“That's not--” John said, his voice cracking.  

Sherlock pushed John back with more force, slipping out of his arms. He strode over to the sink to fill the kettle. “No, it’s only reasonable. You are _straight_ , after all. In the confines of my flat, no one can see us together, but out there, you are a respected heterosexual doctor and army veteran. What’s more, you gave Mary your word. I understand.”  

“It has nothing to do with any of that--” John started.

“It’s fine, John. Tea?” Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the counter, momentarily thankful that his face was hidden from view. Despite his normally-collected demeanor, even he couldn't remain completely calm at this particular moment. In his mind, he rewound to the night before, back to when he had caught John’s wrist. He wished he could turn back time and stop himself from doing it. 

John strode over to Sherlock, forcing him to turn around and clasping his face in both hands.

“For fuck’s sake, will you _listen_ to me? It has nothing to do with being straight, or being bi-- which I am, by the way. I want _you_. I love you, you know I do. I would go out and snog you in the middle of the street right now if you wanted. It’s not that.” 

Sherlock continued to watch him, slightly stunned. John closed his eyes before he spoke. “She’s pregnant, Sherlock. She just told me.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes in comprehension.John had been guilty about leaving Mary, but it was beyond his ability to turn his back on a child. Sherlock knew enough about John’s past to know that it was a breaking point.  

“John,” he said. It was more difficult than he could have imagined to say these words. “Don’t make this harder on yourself. You should leave.”  

John gasped, shaking his head slightly. He pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.   

Sherlock grabbed John’s wrists and pushed him backward. “John. You need to go. Now.” _I won’t be able to bear it if you wait any longer._

John closed his eyes and shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” he whispered. “It’s not…” 

“Shhh.” Sherlock slid his hands up to John’s shoulders. John cracked his eyes open, looking up at Sherlock with a watery gaze. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment John moved forward swiftly to kiss him again. 

Whatever Sherlock had been about to say vanished instantly from his mind. If it was to be the last time he would ever kiss John, he would savor every moment of it. He would file all of it away in his mind palace, somewhere where he would never look, because it would be too painful. But at least he would always know it was there.

Curling his arms around John’s back and pulling him close, he sucked on John’s lip. John whimpered as his hands circled Sherlock’s waist and up under his still-untucked shirt. They kissed desperately, frantically, knowing that it couldn’t last and never wanting it to end. Sherlock backed John against the table, aware that he was was rapidly losing control-- but he couldn’t seem to stop.  

He pushed John down until his back was flat against the table and they both gasped as their hips ground against each other. John clung to Sherlock as if he were holding on for dear life. 

Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth and down under his jaw, wanting to taste him, feel him, anything, anything at all to forget for a few more seconds that John was leaving. 

John bucked his hips upward, circling his legs around Sherlock’s waist and pushing his half-hard cock against Sherlock’s through their clothing, and Sherlock moaned softly. John fisted both of his hands in Sherlock’s hair and nipped Sherlock’s throat. They were grinding against each other, unable to stop long enough to remove their clothing. It wouldn’t be enough friction to fully get off, but doing so would mean breaking apart for longer than Sherlock dared to contemplate. Sherlock planted kisses all over John’s face, trying to memorize every part of John that he wouldn’t be able to touch again. 

“I lo-” John started to gasp, but Sherlock enveloped his mouth with his own, stopping the words from leaving his lips. 

After a moment he broke away, panting. “No. Don’t say it,” Sherlock said. He watched John’s face as another tear escaped the corner of his eye and slid down his cheek.  "We can't."

Trembling slightly, Sherlock dropped his forehead to John’s chest. For a moment they just held each other, neither of them wanting to let go. 

After a few minutes, Sherlock struggled to stand up, but John was still holding him so tightly that he couldn’t move. Lifting his head, Sherlock kissed John once more as he gently pulled his arms off. 

John reached up to run his thumb over Sherlock's lips, and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t stand to look at him anymore. He released John for the last time and stood, feeling slightly wobbly. After a moment's pause, he walked over to the window, wrapping his arms around himself.

Sherlock could hear John standing, adjusting his trousers slightly and walking over to the living room. He didn’t turn around.

“Sherlock--” John began, his voice raspy.

Sherlock shook his head once. "Just go." _  
_

John stopped, and everything was silent. The air was laden with everything they couldn't say.

After a long moment, John turned on his heel and walked out of the flat. Sherlock could hear him pause to put on his jacket and flee down the stairs. 

From his vantage point he saw John walk out onto the street. Once he had walked a few paced he stopped for a moment, as if he were deciding whether or not to truly leave. He turned and glanced up at the window, his face written with pain. 

Without realizing he was doing it, Sherlock pressed his palm to the window. John didn’t respond except to tilt his head slightly, then he turned with soldierly purpose and walked in the other direction. 

Sherlock watched him go, feeling like he was crumbling to ashes. He remained completely still, dry-eyed, until long after the small figure had disappeared. 

After an infinity of time or none at all, Sherlock turned away, glancing around the empty flat until his gaze fell on his music stand. He closed his eyes for a moment, then walked forward with purpose, pulling out fresh sheet music. Staring at the blank pages, he took up his suddenly-heavy violin. It was time to re-compose the wedding waltz.


	6. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed once again because my lovely betas are very busy. So please forgive any errors.
> 
>  
> 
> Also: to everyone who wrote comments on the last chapter that I didn't have a chance to respond to, thank you for the kind words, sorry about the angst, and... sorry about this chapter, too.

 

The dawn light filtered in through the window, highlighting the carpet in shades of yellow. The air was springlike but not too crisp, and there was hardly a cloud in the brilliant sky. It was a perfect day for a wedding in London.  

Sherlock despised it. 

Despite John’s furtive protests via text, Sherlock had insisted on performing his duties as best man. People might suspect something if he didn’t show up to his best friend’s wedding, so he was going to attend. Not only that, he was going to stand next to John as he married Mary.

Sitting in his chair (as he had been almost all night), he stared at John’s empty armchair. There was a limit to how long he could let himself wallow in this misery, as there were only a few hours left until he had to get dressed.

In the two weeks since the stag night, Sherlock had barely left the flat. Lestrade had showed up more than once, but Sherlock had simply ignored him until he had left. Mrs. Hudson had appeared every once in a while and attempted to coax him to eat, but everything felt like ash in his mouth. It hadn’t mattered whether it was day or night, or whether hours or weeks had passed. He slept some, but mostly he just sat in silence. All of his thoughts flowed and merged together in his mind, becoming a haze. He had fallen into a maisma of emptiness, verging on what could probably be categorized as despair. In his darkest moments, Sherlock had found himself wondering whether that short night and following morning had all been a dream. He couldn’t decide whether he preferred that it had.

One night about a week before the wedding, Sherlock had fallen prey to temptation. He had opened the door where he kept the memories of those twelve precious hours: the smell of John’s hair and the sight of his relaxed face in post-coital glow; the small gasps John made into Sherlock’s mouth; John tangled in the sheets in his bed.

The onslaught had been unbearable, and Sherlock had been in agony instantly. He had curled up into a ball like a wounded animal, ineffectively attempting to ward off the pain. His skin ached with the memory of touching John’s, and his arms felt empty without the warm and solid body between them. 

He slammed that door in his mind palace shut and never attempted to open it again. 

Taking into account the many insipid poems and songs Sherlock had been exposed to in his lifetime (most of which he had deleted), he was suffering from what they called “heartbreak.” It was a ridiculous and arbitrary delineation. His whole body was broken, not just the organ that pumped blood through it. His brain had ceased to function, and his chest had been carved out. All that was left was a wreckage, a husk of a man that had once been Sherlock Holmes. 

If he had never met John, none of this would have happened. He would have wandered through life alone, completely unaware. But there was something in John that had unlocked a part of himself he had never known existed, and now there was a vast abyss where it had been.

The harsh words he had once said to Irene came back to haunt him in a jeering chorus. He had looked down his nose at her, full of triumph at her failure, and sneered, “Love is a chemical defect found in the _losing side_. Thank you for the final proof.” Now he had become the willing victim of that chemical defect.

The new wedding song was almost complete, but there were some final touches to be added before he made a clean copy to give as his gift.

Sherlock turned his gaze away from the chair and stood.  Pressing play on the pre-recorded song, he started dancing, trying not to imagine that John was dancing with him.

 

 

* * *

Fully decked out in his battle gear (that is, his morning coat and pressed trousers), Sherlock sat in the taxi and stared out the window at the church.

“You going to get out anytime soon, mate?” the cabbie said, glaring at him in the rearview mirror. He was obviously getting irritated that Sherlock was keeping him from finding another fare.

Sherlock shut his eyes, taking a deep breath, and very carefully put on his mask of cool collectiveness. Once he had settled into the guise of "happy best man," he straightened up. Opening the door, he handed the cabbie his fare along with a generous tip.  

“What a nutter,” the cabbie muttered under his breath. 

Sherlock ignored him, stepping out of the taxi. He brushed the wrinkles out of his suit, tucking his top hat under his arm and striding towards the church.

It was a small chapel made of stone, and had a quaint and old-fashioned feel. There were dozens of flower arrangements in marigold and white surrounding the wooden pews. It was still early, and hardly any guests had arrived. Sherlock walked down the aisle to sit in the front row until it was time to stand up with John.

He closed his eyes, trying to maintain his facade of calm. He just had to get through the next five or six hours.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade's voice said. 

Sherlock didn't move or respond, hoping that he would give up and leave.

“Sherlock, please. John’s asking for you.”  

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. Lestrade was standing in front of him, a frown on his face.  

“I’m busy,” Sherlock said, averting his eyes. 

“Yeah, you look it. Please, mate. I think he’s nervous, and he needs his best friend right now. He’s in the office off the priest’s room.” Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, are you alright? The past couple of weeks you’ve seemed…”

“Seemed what?” Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade watched him for a moment, then shook his head and dropped his hand. “Never mind. Just go, will you?

Sherlock was about to protest again, but instead he nodded and stood. He could feel Lestrade watching as he walked across the apse to the small door on the side. 

The priests’ room was bare and sparsely furnished, and across from him was another door, cracked open. 

Sherlock hadn’t seen John face to face since that day two weeks ago, and the prospect of being alone with him was more daunting than being trapped in his own cycle of pain, but he didn't seem to have a choice. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock crossed the few yards to the other door, entering the room and shutting it behind him.

John was sitting behind the desk in his wedding suit, his head in his hands. As Sherlock walked in, John’s eyes snapped up to meet his, and for a long moment neither of them spoke.

There was immediately a crackling pulse in the air between them, like the electricity in the air during a thunderstorm. Sherlock itched to reach for John, but he didn’t dare. 

John stood, walking over to him quickly. “John…” Sherlock began in warning, but John pushed him aside to lock the door. 

He rested his forehead against the wood, and Sherlock had no idea what to do. He raised his hand to touch John’s shoulder but stopped, letting it fall limply to his side.

“I can’t do this, Sherlock,” John said. “I can’t.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly. According to Lestrade, this was the point at which a best man was supposed to soothe the bridegroom and tell him that it was just nerves. But then, most best men were probably not hopelessly in love with their bridegrooms.  

Unable to find anything to say, Sherlock turned around and pressed his palms into the desk.

He could hear John walking the few steps toward him. “I’ll tell her that I can’t go through with it. I’ll just have to deal with the consequences, but I can’t do this. I--” 

“John, stop,” Sherlock cut in. “You have no choice.”

He could sense John's body next to him, and it was unbearable. He willed himself to keep his hands flat on the table, fearing that if he touched John at all he wouldn’t be able to stop. 

Apparently not sharing those scruples, John brushed Sherlock's shoulder with his fingertips. It was like a hot brand-- that touch which he had ached for over the past two weeks. Sherlock turned his face away. 

“John,” he said under his breath. This had been a terrible idea. 

“Sherlock, look at me,” John said plaintively, pulling Sherlock’s chin towards him. 

Unable to resist, Sherlock looked up. John was close enough that Sherlock could feel his warm breath, and Sherlock was overwhelmed by his scent. It was fascinating and intoxicating; it changed and had different overtones, but was somehow still always John. 

Sherlock stood up, but didn’t move back. He was entering dangerous territory, yet he couldn’t find the will to care.

“The last two weeks were the longest of my life,” John murmured, slipping his hands under Sherlock’s morning coat and around his waist with reverence. Sherlock exhaled loudly.

“This isn’t-- John--” he protested, eve as he wound a hand around John’s neck. His body was acting against his will. 

“Shhh. I know, I know.” John sighed, twisting a hand into Sherlock’s hair. “Don’t say it. Not right now. Please, just for me.” 

 _We can’t do this._ Sherlock made a strangled noise in his throat, but he couldn’t seem to form the words.  

With no warning at all, something broke within each of them and their last bit of resistance failed. Each of them moved forward simultaneously, meeting in a torrent of frantic passion as their mouths sought each other hungrily. Sherlock cupped John’s face in both of his hands, and John bit his lower lip, sending a frisson of energy down Sherlock’s spine. 

Sherlock growled, pushing John back against the wall. He ran his hands down John’s hips, the pads of his fingers pressing into the heavy fabric of his morning coat. There was too much clothing between them; he wanted to touch John’s skin, he ached for it. John held Sherlock in a vicelike grip, pushing forward until their hips ground against each other. All the pent-up frustration and pain flowed into their embrace. John licked into Sherlock's mouth, grasping his arse with both hands. Sherlock was vaguely aware that there were tears running down his face, but whether they were his or John’s, he had no idea. 

 _This is dangerous. Stop. You need to stop._ Asmall voice in the back of his head was trying to get Sherlock’s attention, but he refused to listen. He had John in his arms, the compact form was pressed against his own, and John's lips were parted beneath his own. The sensations eradicated all rational thought. 

 _It can’t last. You need to let him go._  

Sherlock ignored the voice again, kissing a trail down John’s neck. He was barely able to stop himself from sinking his teeth into the skin-- a lovebite would be too conspicuous-- as John made small noises into his ear and smoothed Sherlock’s hair with one hand. “I love you,” John whispered. 

Sherlock froze. Suddenly the voice became extremely loud. _Sherlock. You_ _have_ _to let him go._  

He buried his face in John’s neck, letting out a muffled half-sob. 

He had been unbelievably weak. He shouldn't have even come into this room, let alone allow John to get so close.

Sherlock straightened to his normal height, meeting John’s eyes, which were full of that perplexing emotion that Sherlock refused to name, and which Sherlock had never seen directed at him, save from John. 

Sherlock averted his gaze with great effort and stepped back. John immediately tried to reach for him again, but Sherlock put his palm to John’s sternum, gently (yet firmly) pushing him back. 

He took a shaking breath. “John, you are getting married in twenty minutes. I suggest you spend them collecting yourself and making sure you look… presentable.” 

“But--” 

“John.” Sherlock said it with a bite of steel to his tone, meeting John’s eyes again. "You will never see your child if you leave Mary for me. You will regret that, and you will come to resent me for it. You know you are making the right decision."

Sherlock ducked his head, unable to look at him for another second. “I’m letting you go,” he whispered. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John close his eyes and bow his head in concession. 

Sherlock stepped back further. Immediately, everything felt empty again, as if his natural state of being was for John to be in his arms. Attempting to ignore this fact, Sherlock brushed his suit off and smoothed down his hair. He checked the mirror on the wall to make sure he didn’t look too well-snogged. His lips were slightly reddened, but otherwise, no one would have a clue as to what they had been doing.

Picking up his hat, he turned back and immediately stopped in his tracks. John was slumped against the wall, hand over his face, and he looked shattered. Sherlock had an overwhelming desire to comfort him, to hold him in his arms and eradicate his pain, but there was nothing he could do.  

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock walked over to the door instead. He paused with his hand on the lock. “I love you too." John raised his head to look at him, but Sherlock kept his eyes on the door. “But we should both try and forget that fact.”

Without another word, Sherlock walked out and shut the door behind him. Once he was out of sight, he let his shoulders sag, and he rested his head against the back of the door. 

 

 

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Sherlock was standing next to the priest, his spine ramrod straight. He looked out over the heads of the wedding guests, keeping his face a cold mask. It was the best he could manage, and no one would expect him to be smiling, anyway. He was Sherlock Holmes, the sociopath, incapable of emotions like love or happiness. This was a perfect opportunity to act the part.

The door to the priest’s room finally opened and John emerged. Sherlock continued to stare forward as John walked slowly over to him. They stood in stoic silence, neither of them looking at the other.  

Attempting to distract himself, Sherlock scanned the crowd. His gaze fell on Lestrade, who was glancing back and forth between Sherlock and John face with a confused expression. As Sherlock’s eyes met his, Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Sherlock shook his head infinitesimally, and Lestrade frowned. 

At that moment the music began, and the doors at the back of the church opened. Floating in a cloud of lace and organza, Mary started walking towards them, her beaming face glowing with joy.

The rest of the ceremony was a blur, and Sherlock didn’t pay close attention to the goings on. There was a lot of talking and a lot of sniffling from the audience. When he handed the rings to John, their hands brushed just briefly, and he could hear John inhale sharply. 

Sherlock stepped back immediately, focusing his gaze on the far wall again. John turned to put the ring on Mary’s finger as he said his vows, his voice cracking with emotion. Everyone in the audience assumed it was out of incandescent happiness.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock’s whole body tensed as he walked up onto the stage. It was almost over. He had gotten through the best man’s speech (barely), and all the other inane rituals that followed going to a church and proclaiming “til death do us part.” He had only one duty left. 

The crowd had made a circle around the bride and groom in the candlelit room, chattering with anticipation. Sherlock set up the music stand, though he didn't need it; he knew the notes by heart. 

As he lifted the violin to his neck, resting the bow on the strings, he looked out onto the dance floor. For the first time since they had been in the office, he let his gaze meet John’s.

For one long moment, everything stilled. John’s eyes were that deep blue, the blue Sherlock had fancied to look like the ocean in Capri, and they were focused intensely on Sherlock, not his new wife.  

Feeling like his chest was being ripped to shreds, Sherlock made himself smile. Then he started to play. 

John immediately gasped, but Mary prodded him slightly. Shaking himself visibly, John started to move. They danced simply yet skillfully, and there were soft “ooohs” and “aaahs” from the audience. John looked as though he were trying to hold back tears, and his eyes were determinedly focused on Mary’s face. 

Not for the first time, Sherlock wondered whether deciding to play this song had been a mistake, but it was too late now. It was John’s song-- the one he had improvised during those few precious hours back at Baker Street. He’d had to reconstruct it from memory, and he hadn’t been able to remember all of the notes. Apparently, John had recognized it all the same.

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back to when John was his and only his. He let himself remember when John had been in his arms and it had been enough, even if it was only for a while. For a moment, he let himself imagine that John was in his chair, watching him play, about to spring up and pull him into an embrace. 

This time, he played everything he couldn’t say. _I love you, but I am letting you go. I want you to be happy. I want you to have everything I can’t give you._ His violin sang it all, and more.

Once the piece was done, there was an uproarious applause. Sherlock bowed, and very pointedly didn’t look at John and Mary as he put his violin down.

He walked over to the microphone stand and cleared his throat. Everyone’s eyes settled on him again. For the thousandth time that day, Sherlock’s hackles raised at the attention being focused on him, but it would be over soon. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, one last thing before the evening begins properly. Today, we saw two people make vows. I have never made a vow in my life and after tonight I doubt I ever will again.” He paused, looking downward for a moment to gather himself, then he looked directly at John. “So, here in front of you all, my first and last vow. Mary and John: whatever it takes, whatever happens, from now on I swear I will always be there, always.” _For all three of you,_ he said silently, watching John’s face. The audience clapped. 

The music began around them, blaring an obnoxious song from the sixties, and the rest of the wedding party started to dance. John said something to Mary, and she nodded as he turned and strode up to the stage. Sherlock stepped away from the microphone and placed his violin in its case. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John standing next to him, his fists clenched. 

“How could you? How _could you_ play that song?” John whispered angrily. “You could have played anything, _anything,_ but not that. How could you do that?" John’s voice cracked on the last word.

Sherlock snapped the case shut, closing his eyes briefly and swallowing, before he looked up. Despite his aggressive posture, John’s eyes were pleading with Sherlock, and he looked tormented and lost.  

Glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot, Sherlock straightened and moved closer to John. “I’m sorry, John. I… had to say goodbye. That was the only way I knew how,” he said softly. 

John’s fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides in an obvious effort to stop himself from reaching out to touch him. 

“Sherlock--” 

“You should go and dance, now, John,” Sherlock interrupted. “It's your wedding day. It would look strange for you to continue to stand here talking to me.”

He ripped his eyes from John’s face to glance at Mary, whose face was filled with satisfaction. He nodded.  _He’s yours, now._ She smiled. 

“Go and dance with your wife, John,” Sherlock said, still watching Mary. 

John made a noise of desperation, and for a moment Sherlock thought he was going to protest again, but then his shoulders slumped in defeat. Instead, he turned and walked down to meet Mary. As he started to dance, John forced a smile, which only two other people in the room knew was fake. 

After watching them for a moment, Sherlock put the sheet music in its envelope (addressed to “Dr. and Mrs. Watson”) and left it on the music stand, grabbing his coat. He walked around the periphery of the dancing guests in an attempt to be inconspicuous. When he reached the side door, Sherlock could feel John’s eyes on his back, but he didn’t turn around.  

He paused, closing his eyes. _Goodbye, John._ Reopening his eyes, Sherlock steeled himself and pushed the door open. Turning his back on the warmth and light, he walked into the darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are wondering where the Mayflay Man plot went, it wasn’t an oversight. It seemed to complicated for the scope of this fic, so I decided to delete it, just like I deleted Tessa. In my universe, Sholto simply didn’t come to the wedding. Problem solved!


	7. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to Erin (bookaddled) for being an awesome stand-in beta!
> 
> WARNING: There is a lot of reference to drug use in this chapter.

Sherlock frantically ripped through his cupboard, throwing clothes in all directions.

Once he had completely emptied it, Sherlock stood, growling, and stalked over to his sock drawer. He pulled out all the socks one by one and threw them behind him, sock index be damned. Nothing. 

Thrumming his fingers over his lips, he scanned around the now-messy room. In a flash, he dove under his bed, sticking his head under the dust ruffle and pawing through the detritus there. It had to be here somewhere. 

“Spring cleaning?” a voice asked dryly from behind him. 

Sherlock froze momentarily. “Bugger off, Gavin,” he said, continuing to sift through the odds and ends beneath his bed. 

“It’s _Greg,_ ” Lestrade said in a huff.

If he had been standing, Sherlock would have shrugged or rolled his eyes, but as it was, neither of the necessary body parts were in Lestrade’s view.  

He pushed aside a rather large feather boa he had used to go undercover for a case once, revealing a smallish carpet bag. Exhaling deeply, Sherlock pulled it forward with reverence. Just as he was about to unzip it, however, Lestrade pulled him out from under the bed by his legs and flipped him over with apparent ease.

Lestrade stood above him, frowning. “Have you been eating, mate?” 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock sneered. 

Standing quickly and brushing himself off, he took stock of his ruined wedding suit. There were dirt and dust stains all down the front, and a rip on the side of the morning coat where it had snagged on a nail. _Good._  

“What’s this, then?” Lestrade asked, attempting to pull the bag from Sherlock’s arms.

“Nothing. It’s for an experiment,” Sherlock said, clutching the bag to his chest and stepping back.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at him. “An _experiment_ , eh? Is that why you left John’s wedding early, without a word? This _experiment_ couldn’t wait a moment longer?” 

“As Mrs. Hudson is most certainly still cutting a rug at the reception, you obviously showed yourself in. You can do yourself the same favor and show yourself out.” Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and strode quickly to the bathroom, slamming the door shut and locking it. 

Lestrade knocked almost immediately. “Sherlock, don’t do this. You’ve been doing so well, don’t throw it all away.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about,” Sherlock said distractedly as he unzipped the dusty bag on the toilet seat, sighing with relief. Knowing that there would be systematic searches by John and Mycroft, he had hidden decoy stashes in the flat long ago. This last stash had been like a security blanket; he had kept it just in case. He hadn’t used since before he met John, not even during the time he had faked his death, but it didn’t matter anymore.  

“Sherlock--”

“Don’t you have something better to be doing? Failing to solve a murder, perhaps?” 

He heard a noise of exasperation followed by a dull thunk, similar to the sound of a forehead hitting the wood of the door.

Sherlock paid no heed, pulling two small bottles and a small case out of the bag. Setting the bottles aside, he unclasped the case slowly, where his silver and glass gauge and several hypodermic needles were housed. He pulled one out and slid it into the gauge.

“You really must think I’m an idiot. I know exactly what you’re doing. I’ll break down this door if I have to,” Lestrade said from outside.

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock retorted. The door was at least a few inches thick, and Lestrade was not nearly strong enough to break the lock. 

There was a dull thud and a muffled cry of pain. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he carefully put the case down on the sink. He pulled off his jacket and waistcoat, throwing them on the floor, and ripped the sleeve of his left arm back, rolling it up to his biceps. Rummaging through his medicine cabinet, he found some old bandage that John had kept there. After tying it around his upper arm, Sherlock sat down with his back to the wall and filled the needle with a large dose. Holding it up to the light, he flicked it to get rid of the air.  

The ritual of preparation was soothing, like taking a long pull of a cigarette after years of abstinence-- and he hadn’t even injected himself yet. 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, his voice lower to the ground, now. He must be sitting on the floor and leaning his back against the door. Sherlock blinked, having all but forgotten that he was there. 

“Don’t do this. Think of what this would do to him.”

Sherlock froze, his right hand holding the needle a couple of inches from the crook of his elbow. He didn’t move, simply staring at the glinting bud of liquid on the tip of the shiny metal. It had a beauty all its own, and Lestrade was ruining it.

As if he could sense Sherlock’s weakness, Lestrade pressed the advantage. “I could see it, you know. I knew something was off this morning. At first, I thought that John was just nervous about the wedding… hell, I was sweating bullets on my wedding day. I figured that once you went back to calm him down, everything would be fine. Then, when you were waiting for the ceremony, you looked like you were in pain. That wasn’t so unusual considering you were around so many people--” Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, but Lestrade kept talking. “--but John… I was on the far side of the pew so I think I was the only one who could see. As he turned to shut the door, he closed his eyes, and for a moment, he looked just… wrecked. It was almost like someone had died."

Lestrade paused as if he were weighing his words, then cleared his throat. “He straightened up and put on a brave face as he walked over, but then as he stood next to you, neither of you looked at the other. Once I looked closely… I don’t know, you both looked miserable. I don’t think anyone else noticed--”

“Is there a _point_ to this soliloquy?” Sherlock bit off the words, a bitter taste in his mouth. He was still staring down at the needle, which was so close, to the throbbing vein. He didn’t put it down, but neither did he sink it into his arm.

The ensuing silence seemed to stretch on forever. The light under the door shifted as Lestrade moved, as if he were slightly uncomfortable.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted. 

Lestrade cleared his throat again. “I know John always maintained that you were nothing more than mates. I’ll admit I had my doubts-- we all did-- what with you living together and all. And you seemed… I don’t know, there was just something about you two.” He paused again. Every long silence felt like bugs crawling over Sherlock’s skin.

“Then when you died… Sherlock, I have never seen anyone, _anyone_ , so broken. He was like half a man. For a while there, mate, I thought I was going to be called to John’s flat one day to rule out foul play in his suicide.” 

Sherlock's body shuddered involuntarily. He was still staring at his arm, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore. Instead he saw John’s face twisted in shock and horror as Sherlock tossed his phone down and jumped off the roof. He saw the stoic soldier standing at Sherlock's grave, his voice cracking with emotion as he asked for one more miracle. 

His mind rewound to when he had first met John: the broken man with a limp who had craved danger like air and was slowly suffocating without it. The man who kept a gun in his desk drawer because it was within easy reach; and, one day not that long from then, may have kissed the barrel and ended it all. 

“Then he found Mary, and he seemed… better. Not great, but better. He seemed to be able to cope at least. I was happy for him.”

Sherlock eyes were blurring, and he quickly wiped them on his sleeve. 

“When you came back, for a while it seemed like he had the best of both worlds-- a soon-to-be wife, and you, his best friend. I never would have thought more of it--”

“Until you saw us at the wedding,” Sherlock interrupted bitterly.

“Right. Especially when he went up to talk to you after the first dance. He looked like he wanted to punch you and snog you at the same time. I don’t know what’s been going on, or for how long, but mate… why did you let him go through with it?”

Sherlock lifted his eyes to stare at the door. He had never planned on telling anyone, let alone Lestrade, about any of this.  

He pursed his lips. “I’m impressed. I never thought you could be so perceptive. You should use more of these talents at crime scenes.”

“ _Sherlock._ ” 

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and retreating back into the only place in his mind that wasn’t etched in pain. He let himself fall into the memory, watching John sleep, his golden body wrapped in the sheet and the cool spring air filtering into the room.

He knew he would regret it later, but for now, he replayed the memory over and over again in his mind. “I can’t.” He said at almost a whisper. 

He could hear a muffled gasp. 

“Why?” Lestrade said carefully.

“Leave me be, Greg,” Sherlock said quietly, pushing the needle downward until it had almost pierced the skin but not quite. 

He heard some scuffling, as if Lestrade were turning around. “Sherlock, please, talk to me. You’re worrying me, mate.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m worrying you _now_? I haven’t been worrying you for the last half hour?”

“Yes, because you just called me by my name. You never remember my name.”  

Sherlock suddenly felt extremely tired. “So I did,” he said. 

Letting his head fall back to rest against the wall, he retreated back into his memories, letting them all fall open in front of him one last time. He saw John’s face, the single tear escaping from one eye, when he first told Sherlock he loved him; he saw the late morning sunlight filtering through the flat as he held John in his arms on the sofa; he saw the color of John’s wet hair under the stream of water; he felt John’s desperate kisses after Mary had told him about the baby...

Unable to bear it any longer, he plunged the needle into his arm and pushed the liquid in. _Forget. Let me forget. Please._ He unwrapped the tourniquet, sighing in relief as he dropped the needle. Almost immediately, the rush of nothingness started to engulf him like warm clouds of release. The memories started to float away, taking the pain with them. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock lay down on his side and pressed his cheek into the cool tile. 

“Sherlock? _Sherlock?_ Answer me, dammit,” a voice said from far away. He couldn’t find the will to care.  

“ _Shit_ ,” the voice muttered, and there was a rustling sound and then footsteps retreating down the hallway. “Hello? Mycroft, we have a problem…” 

There were some noises from the kitchen and more talking.

As Sherlock was starting to slip into unconsciousness, he could hear the sound of a crowbar ripping through wood.  

 

* * *

Sherlock swam in and out of lucidity, somehow aware that he was in his own bed. He hadn't overdosed, then, apparently.  

He could hear several serious-sounding voices floating in from the living room. There was also a storm brewing outside, the wind battering against the windows loudly. Sherlock turned over so that his back was to the door, burying his face in a pillow and pulling another one over his head. Somehow, though, he could still hear the conversation. It was like a drill boring into his head. 

“What? Are you serious? You don’t think putting him in rehab is the best thing for him? Yes, it’s only one slip so far-- that we _know of_.  Who knows what’ll happen now. If I hadn’t been here--”

“I may remind you, Detective Inspector, that _I_ am the only one present who is a member of his immediate family. As such, I am the only one who has any power to commit him. I also do not have any obligation to explain my actions to you.” 

“But--” a female voice said.

“Ms. Hooper, would you be so kind as to check Sherlock’s vitals? I know you are more used to patients of the deceased variety, however…” 

“Yeah, I can find a pulse, thanks,” Molly said sharply, and Sherlock could hear her footsteps coming towards him. 

“I know I have no rights per se, Mycroft, but I might remind you that I was the one who found Sherlock when you had given him up for dead.”

Sherlock could hear Mycroft huff in annoyance. “For which I am forever in your debt. However, as you well know, neither putting him in a rehabilitation center nor letting him help with cases ever had any lasting effect. If Sherlock doesn’t want to stay clean, he won’t.” 

Molly entered Sherlock’s room, but he pretended to still be unconscious. She walked over and sat on the side of his bed. “Sherlock, I’m just going to look you over,” she said quietly, as if he were gravely ill. 

He didn’t respond, so she held his wrist lightly for a few moments to check his pulse. Apparently satisfied, she put a palm on his back and with the other hand felt under his nose to make sure his breathing was regular. 

Lestrade’s voice echoed through the empty door. “Oh? You don’t think any of that helped him stay clean?”

There was a long pause. “No, Detective Inspector. I don’t.”

Sherlock could hear footsteps as someone (most likely Lestrade, based on the weight and timing between steps) paced back and forth. “Fine. No rehab. But shouldn’t we tell John?”

Mycroft snorted in derision. “He would surely return poste haste to Sherlock’s side, ruining his honeymoon. I can assure you without a doubt that it would be against Sherlock's wishes for us to do so."

"Fine. What about Henry?"

There was a lengthy pause. "I will make sure he is aware of the situation."

“Sherlock,” Molly said quietly, removing her hand from his back. “I know you’re awake. If you don’t want to talk to me, that’s fine, but at least listen.” 

Sherlock still didn’t move visibly, but he opened his eyes just a crack and stared at the wall. 

Molly paused, fidgeting slightly. “Remember… remember what you told me the night before you jumped? In the lab?” 

Sherlock remained taciturn as she smoothed the bedclothes nervously. “You said you weren’t okay, and that you were going to die." She paused, fumbling for words. 

 _Oh, sodding hell._ He had completely forgotten about that. It had been a moment of weakness, and after all this time she remembered it? 

“You told me that I was right-- you couldn’t let John see when you were sad. I had always wondered about that, and now I understand it. Maybe I didn’t want to, but I never really could see it before, not when I was blinded by my own… well, you know.” He couldn’t see her face, but Sherlock imagined that she was probably blushing.

“I saw you leave the wedding last night. I had a gut feeling that something was wrong and I almost went after you, but I thought you were just getting some air. Apparently Greg could see what was happening when I couldn’t, because he followed you right away. I know that I might be wrong, but if it’s true… if… if I’m seeing it correctly this time, I just wanted you to know that--” she swallowed audibly and turned away, planting her feet flat on the floor. “I wanted you to know that I wish things had turned out differently. For you and John. I know what it’s like to love someone who can’t love you back.” 

There was a long silence again, punctured only by the creaking of a shutter in the wind outside. _I’m sorry, Molly. I'm sorry I tormented you, when my heart belonged to someone else._ He didn’t need to say it, because she already knew.

“Right, then.” Molly started to stand, and without knowing he was doing it, Sherlock turned over and grabbed her wrist. Pausing for a moment, she sat down again and focused her eyes on the floor.

“Molly--" He sat up quickly and regretted it instantly, his whole body aching. The only way to stop the withdrawal symptoms was to inject himself with more morphine, and they had most certainly taken the rest away. 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I just wanted you to know that I’m here, like always. If you needed someone to talk to. You asked for my help once, and I know it was hard for you to do, but…” she trailed off, picking at a loose thread in her jumper and not meeting his eyes.  

A thousand things raced through his mind: denials, evasion, barbs that would hurt her and make her leave. But as he opened his mouth, the words that emerged surprised him. “Thank you, Molly. I know I don’t say it often-- or, rather, ever-- but I rather feel that I will never truly deserve your friendship.” 

Her eyes rose to meet his, and for the first time he took in her appearance: dark circles, last night's makeup. She must have grabbed clothes on the way from the wedding and come straight here.

Molly blinked back tears as she nodded. Hesitating slightly, she took his hand and squeezed it. 

“One more thing. Just, for his sake, don’t do this again. Please.” 

Sherlock frowned. _“John wouldn’t want this.” “Don’t do this, for John’s sake.”_

“I’ll try my best, Molly,” he said, lying by evasion. He had no intention of stopping for the near future, but he could promise to try. 

Her forehead furrowed as she watched him. At length, she nodded, turning to look out the window.

They sat in companionable silence as Mycroft and Lestrade continued to argue outside and the rain pattered down on the tile of the roof overhead.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock heard the front door open and close downstairs. He perked up from his position on the sofa, listening to the footsteps ascending the staircase: two steps per stair, using the railing for support.

Sherlock groaned, turning over so that he was facing the back of the sofa and curling up tighter into a fetal position.

The footsteps continued haltingly up to the flat, pausing at the door.

“Go away,” Sherlock mumbled, pulling his hood over his head.

“Sherlock--”

“Go _away_ ,” Sherlock repeated.

He heard a lengthy sigh, and shuffling of footsteps over to the single chair by the fireplace. Sherlock had dragged John’s armchair up to his now-unused room weeks ago, unable to look at it for another moment.

They both sat in silence for an interminably long time, but Sherlock didn’t move or otherwise acknowledge his presence. Henry was nothing if not patient, however, and Sherlock knew that he would stay there all night if necessary.

“What?” Sherlock snapped, after almost an hour. He was already craving another fix, and he couldn’t actually shoot up while Henry was there.

“You are capable of deducing why I am here, I imagine,” Henry said casually, as if they had been speaking the entire time.

Sherlock scowled at the sofa cushion in front of his face. “We have already had this conversation dozens of times. I already know what you are going to say. Let’s just skip to the part where you leave, shall we?”

Henry didn’t say anything, but Sherlock knew that he was probably shaking his head.

“You can’t keep doing this, son,” his father said after another few minutes.

“Watch me,” Sherlock bit off.

“You’re high right now, aren’t you." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock frowned even more deeply. “Why does it matter?” _Nothing matters. Not anymore._

“Your brother says that you have not even been taking cases. It’s been a month since John’s wedding. This isn’t healthy. When was the last time you ate something?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to answer.

Henry sighed again. “You’re mother’s worried.”

“You are worried, Mycroft is worried, Violet, Lestrade, Molly-- everyone is _worried._ Has it not occurred to any of you that I don’t _care_?” he spat.

“You do care,” Henry said flatly. “Because the one person you want to be worried about you isn’t here.”

Sherlock hugged his arms around himself. His father always had a knack for saying exactly what he had been avoiding thinking about.

“He doesn’t want to be.” Sherlock said it so quietly that even he almost couldn’t hear it.

Henry stood, walking slowly over to Sherlock and resting a hand on his shoulder. “We both know that’s not true.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tighter, trying not to let the tears welling there take shape. He’d only cried a handful of times in front of his father, and most of them had been when he was a child.

“Did you ever tell him?” Henry asked softly.

Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry, son.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

“I know what it is to love someone and lose them,” Henry went on. “You don’t have to stop loving them. It doesn’t make you weaker. That pain-- the pain of loss-- it’s what makes you human.”

There was an odd clenching in the center of his chest, and suddenly Sherlock couldn’t take it anymore. He pulled out of Henry’s grasp, rolling off the sofa. He grabbed his emergency stash of cash from the kitchen and fled from the flat.

“Sherlock!” he heard his father calling his name, but Sherlock was already flying down the stairs, and thinking about which dark corner of the city he would hide in. There was one house in particular he could think of where he could get high all day and no one would disturb him; in fact, no one would even know he was there.

 

 

* * *

John strode with purpose towards the drug den, excitement thrumming through his body. He knew he wasn’t supposed to enjoy this, but after a month of being in domestic suburban “bliss,” he felt like a caged animal. 

Since the wedding, Sherlock hadn’t returned a single one of his calls or texts, and after two weeks his phone had been disconnected.  John had told himself that Sherlock was just trying to keep them from doing anything they might regret. It was logical, and Sherlock was nothing if not logical. John had never imagined that Sherlock would break off _all_ contact, though, and it stung more than he would admit.

In the vacuum created by the lack of Sherlock's existence, John had attempted to throw himself into domestic preparations with Mary. He'd helped shop for a crib, and had given his opinion on the color of the nursery, though the due date was still many months away. His heart wasn’t in any of it. Sleeping at Mary’s side, he always dreamed about Sherlock: his head tilting as he played the violin, his full lips as John kissed him, and the sense of utter fulfillment when John had slept, nestled into Sherlock’s neck. It felt like betrayal, even though it was only in his dreams. 

Dead leaves crunched underfoot as he walked up to the porch. The decrepit house had obviously been abandoned, a perfect place for squatters and for anyone who didn’t want to be found.  John paused on the doorstep, gathering himself briefly, before he entered. He immediately encountered a lowlife that was easily dealt with before heading to the second floor. Scanning around the many beds with bedraggled and dirty bodies, he finally found Isaac. Helping him sit up, John started checking the boy’s vitals.  

“Dr. Watson?” Isaac slurred.

“Yep,” John said as he checked each of his pupils. Isaac’s eyes were glazed over and his pulse was low. He was obviously high as a kite-- but he was not in any immediate danger.

“Where am I?” Isaac asked confusedly.

“The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the earth. Look at me.” He needed to keep Isaac awake, if at all possible. 

“Have you come for me?”  

John almost laughed. “D’you think I know a lot of people around here? C’mon, let’s get going. Mary’s outside.” 

He helped Isaac up, glancing over to the next bed, where a man with curly (albeit matted) dark hair, wearing filthy sweatpants was lying on his side. His back was to them, so John couldn't see his face. John paused, just for a moment, then shook his head and started walking away.  

After a few steps, however, John stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to leave without checking. 

“Isaac, just go out the back and find Mary, alright? I’ll be right behind you.”

“A-Alright, Dr. Watson.”  

John watched him walk out before striding back over to the curly-haired man. He knew he was being ridiculous, and that this man couldn’t possibly be Sherlock, but something about him pricked his brain.

John knelt by the filthy mattress, hesitating momentarily before he patted the man’s body down for weapons. He was definitely tall enough, and had the same general build as Sherlock, though he was even skinnier. He also appeared to be unconscious, or at least so drugged out that he wasn't lucid.

Satisfied that he wasn’t going to knife John if he got too close, John turned him over.  

His stomach fell out. The pale, emaciated face was covered with dirt, but it was definitely Sherlock.  

“Oh, god, Sherlock, what… what happened?” When Sherlock didn't respond, John felt for his pulse. It was there, though it was weak. He pulled Sherlock’s eyes open one by one, checking his pupils. They were pinpoints, despite the dark room. John took stock of Sherlock's whole body, and he could tell that it was ravaged beyond belief; he was thin, so thin.  

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John clutched the fabric of the filthy sweatshirt, unable to believe what he was seeing. He leaned down without thinking and kissed Sherlock’s unresponsive lips. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice cracking as he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s. He somehow knew, without needing to hear it, that this was his fault. 

Then he snapped into doctor mode, hauling Sherlock up and hoisting his arm over one shoulder. “I’m going to make this up to you,” he said, gritting his teeth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As they say, "the night is darkest before the dawn." Patience my dears.


	8. The Vow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update this time, but this chapter just didn't want to be written for some reason. It's also a lot longer than most of the others. Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> Thanks a bunch to Hannah and Erin for being betas and for listening to me complain about this chapter for days on end.

 

Shapes swirled in and out of Sherlock’s vision, and there were hushed murmurings around him. He couldn’t seem to find the strength to care. Didn’t they know he was dead? They should just leave him be. He let himself fall back into darkness.

Some time later, there was a bright light shining directly into Sherlock’s eyes. He blinked them open, unable to stay in the realm of shadows any longer.

Directly in his line of sight was Mycroft’s grim face, which looked slightly pudgier than when Sherlock had seen him last.

"Diet not going well, eh, Mycroft?" Sherlock winced.  It felt like something was grating against his skull when he spoke.

Mycroft smiled tightly. “Hello, brother mine. Have you wallowed in self-pity long enough yet?”

Sherlock closed his eyes again, exhaling slowly. His entire body ached; the roof of his mouth was dry, his fingernails and teeth hurt, and he was shivering. Considering how far the withdrawal had progressed, he had been detoxing at least overnight.

“Which is it this time?” 

“Pardon?”

He sighed, cracking his eyes open but refusing to meet Mycroft’s gaze. “Which clandestine rehab center did you commit me to this time? I’m assuming you had one of your minions come and find me? You needn’t have bothered.” _  
_

In his peripheral vision he could see Mycroft’s eyes narrow.

“You are not in a rehabilitation center. We are at St. Bart’s. For the record, I didn’t have you pulled out of the cesspool in which you were found. A certain ex-army doctor did.”

Sherlock’s eyes immediately snapped up to meet Mycroft’s. _J_ _ohn found me? Was he looking for me?_

His brother arched both eyebrows, and Sherlock looked away again quickly.

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft seemed curious, rather than smug, as he watched Sherlock.

Sherlock tried not to squirm under the intensity of his scrutiny. After some time, Mycroft stood, brushing the wrinkles from his trousers.

“I’ll tell him you’re awake, shall I?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, so Mycroft rolled his eyes and and walked out of the room.

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed again. John was _here_. Sherlock didn't dare to try and deduce what it meant. _  
_

Someone walked in and Sherlock's eyes flew open.

John was standing next to the door, immobile, his eyes raking down Sherlock’s form.

“John,” Sherlock croaked. The sound of his voice seemed to shake John from his thoughts, because he strode over to the bedside immediately.

“Don’t try to speak,” he said, his voice cracking slightly.  “Do you want some water?”

Without waiting for a reply, John poured some water from a jug on the bedside table and helped Sherlock sit up to drink. As he lay back against the pillows again, Sherlock winced involuntarily. He had broken out into a sweat, and he knew from experience that the chills would start soon. 

His brow furrowing, John reached up to smooth Sherlock’s curls back from his forehead.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the touch, sighing. “John… why didn’t you just let me go?”

John snorted. “You would rather that I had let you die there? Not bloody likely.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, slowly, to meet John’s gaze. _Yes, I do wish that._

Remorse and guilt outlining his features, John sat on the chair next to the bed. “I-- Sherlock, I’m…” he stuttered.

“It’s not your fault,” Sherlock said softly.

John shook his head angrily. “No. No, it is. You almost _died._ I know exactly why this happened, and it’s my fault.” He ran his hand over his face in frustration.

“You shouldn’t feel guilty, John. I’m a junkie. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Sherlock started to turn his head away, but John immediately grasped him by the chin and forced him to look back.

“No, you don’t get to do that this time. I’m not letting you. You don’t get to shut me out, or act like your death would somehow be better for the both of us.”

Before Sherlock could respond, John dipped down to kiss him.

It was light at first, as John was apparently still worried about his fragile state, but Sherlock soon pushed it over the edge. Inwardly berating himself for his weakness (but not having the will to stop), Sherlock whimpered, clasping both hands around John’s face. John twisted his hand into Sherlock’s hair, leaning inward and enveloping Sherlock’s mouth with his own.

Eventually, John broke the kiss, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Sherlock couldn't speak. When John left this time, he would be right back where he had been after the wedding-- only it would be even worse.

He pulled John’s hands away slowly. “We can’t keep doing this.”

“Sherlock, don’t.” John gritted his teeth, and there was a flash of the ex-soldier in his eyes.

“All the reasons we had before are still true, John,” Sherlock reminded him softly.

“I’m not doing it anymore. I’ll figure out what to do about Mary, but I can’t let you go again. I _won’t._ You can try and convince me until your lips turn blue, but this time I’m not listening. I was a complete and total arsehole, and if I had lost you… I…” he bowed his head, shaking it slightly, before he looked Sherlock straight in the eyes again. "You don't get to decide for the both of us. It's my choice, and I choose you."

For a moment Sherlock considered arguing again, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have any strength left to fight. 

Hesitating for another split second, Sherlock nodded. Wincing slightly, he shifted to one side to make room on the narrow bed. Without hesitation John pulled off his jacket and threw it aside before lying down next to Sherlock, careful not to disturb any of his IVs. He nestled his head into Sherlock’s neck, curling himself around Sherlock’s body carefully. Closing his eyes, Sherlock kissed his forehead and rested his nose in John’s hair.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to; the decision had been made.

Several minutes passed, and Sherlock let himself open the door to all of those precious moments, the ones that he had injected himself with morphine to forget. They weren’t a source of pain, not anymore.  

Eventually he murmured, “What now, Dr. Watson?”

John laughed. “I don’t know. I have no bloody idea.” He turned his face slightly and kissed under Sherlock’s jaw. 

“Well if you want to do _that_ , you might have to wait a little while longer.” Sherlock sighed, running a hand down John’s back.

“You mean I might have to make you eat something first. You’re so bloody thin, it would be pretty uncomfortable for me. All bones.” He poked at Sherlock’s side in jest, but Sherlock could see the concern in his eyes.

Sherlock attempted a smile. “There was no one to feed me up.”

John snorted. “I can’t believe that you remember that.”

Sherlock looked down his nose. “John. Of course I remember that conversation. You were adorably flirtatious.”

John narrowed his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to pull you, you know.”

“You may continue to delude yourself as long as you wish.”

“I wasn’t!”

“Licking your lips and asking me whether I had a boyfriend? Please.”

John let his gaze fall to Sherlock’s chest. “Well, you said very clearly that you weren’t interested. So I never thought...”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “I didn’t think I was. Not then, anyway.”

John watched him for a moment. “When did you realize you were?”

“Interested?” _Or in love?_ Sherlock traced the curve of John’s bottom lip with his thumb.

“Er…”

Sherlock moved his hand around to brush against the short hairs at the back of John’s neck, feeling them between his fingertips. He had never thought that he would be able to do this again-- to have free rein to touch John-- and he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Sherlock, I can tell you’re trying to distract me.”

He sighed, tracing the shell of John’s ear. “The graveyard.”

John stiffened slightly. “The graveyard.”

“Yes. That’s when I realized it consciously, anyway.”

John pressed his forehead into Sherlock’s neck.

“And then when you came back…” his voice was muffled.

“You were with Mary. I wasn’t going to ruin that by telling you. I probably never would have.”

“Why did you? After all this time, after you watched me plan my wedding… why did you tell me?”

Sherlock considered that for a moment. “I think the phrase is ‘liquid courage.’ That night, I didn’t seem to care what I _should_ do. For once, my empirical brain was switched off. You were in front of me, and I wanted you, and you were… well.”

“Obviously in love with you? Unable to hide the fact that I wanted to shag you cross-eyed?”

Sherlock held back a laugh. “I didn’t know for certain. It was an hypothesis. Which is why I gave you plenty of opportunities to refuse.”

John chuckled. “Sherlock Holmes, admitting that he didn’t know something. I think I want that printed and framed.”

The silence stretched for a long time. John inhaled, steeling himself to say something. “You know, when you were gone… I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt…"he swallowed, obviously trying to hold back a tide of emotion. "Then yesterday, when I found you…”

Sherlock felt a pit of guilt in his stomach. In his pain and selfishness, he hadn’t realized that he was leaving John behind again, but this time it would have been permanent. He had been wrapped up so tightly in his own agony that how it would have affected John hadn't crossed his mind.

Sitting back slightly so that he could meet Sherlock’s eyes, John cleared his throat. “Sherlock… don’t do that again. Please.” 

Sherlock saw in his eyes what he couldn’t say out loud. _Don’t try to leave me again. Don’t try to push me away, and don’t disappear. I can’t handle it again._

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock realized that he had been wrong at the wedding when he had said he would never make another vow.

Leaning down to kiss John briefly, he whispered, “I won’t. I promise.”

 

 

* * *

They must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was blinking his eyes open blearily. In front of him was a rather rotund nurse, who was staring down at them disapprovingly. There was also a telly blaring in the background.

“Visiting hours are over,” she said pointedly. Her eyes flicked over John, who was currently still curled up around Sherlock.

“So they are. Would you be so kind as to get me some tea?” She raised her eyebrows at him, but he simply stared at her, making no move to awaken John.

Shaking her head, she checked his IV before stalking away.

“Wait, can you turn off--” Sherlock began, but she was already gone. Sighing, Sherlock looked down at John, who was still sound asleep. He must not have slept the entire time Sherlock had been unconscious; he seemed exhausted.

Sherlock’s whole body still ached in withdrawal, but the pain was dulled, somehow. It might have something to do with the warm slumbering body next to him. Smiling slightly, he let his nose nuzzle into John’s hair and he breathed in deeply.

The telly was still making an obnoxious racket in the background.

“...first reports coming out of the scene are that business magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen was found in his office this morning. He was declared dead on arrival at St. Bart’s only hours ago, a single bullet wound to his head. The question remains: who did this, and why? New Scotland Yard has been rather close-lipped about the entire affair…"

Sherlock snapped up to look at the screen. Magnussen was dead.

Of all the criminals he had ever encountered, Magnussen, the King of Blackmail, was the one that made his skin crawl the most. Any one of dozens of people could have wanted him killed, and many of them were the de facto heads of state from some of the most powerful countries in Europe. Including Mycroft.

The door opened and Mycroft stepped in, his eyes widening as they fell on the bed.

"Speak of the devil," Sherlock muttered. “Magnussen,” he said more loudly.

“Yes,” Mycroft mumbled, averting his gaze. Sherlock smirked. He had never heard Mycroft mumble before.

John shifted slightly beside him. He cracked his eyes open, looking up at Sherlock in an endearingly confused way. “Did I fall asleep?” he asked blearily.

“So it seems,” Sherlock replied. John yawned, tilting his face for a kiss, but Sherlock put a finger over his lips to stop him.

“We have company,” he said.

John’s eyes widened, and he looked over at Mycroft. He stood up quickly, attempting (unsuccessfully) to smooth down his hair and looking determinedly at the floor.

“Mycroft,” John said, clearing his throat.

“John,” Mycroft said, tilting his head towards him in formal recognition.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, why don’t you get a coffee?”

“Er… right.” John straightened his jumper and attempted to flatten his hair once more as he left the room.

“I see congratulations are in order,” Mycroft said, a hint of smugness in his tone.

Sherlock ignored the barb. “So, was it you?”

“Of course it wasn’t me,” Mycroft scoffed.

Sherlock frowned. “Who, then?”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “As the world-famous consulting detective among us, I was hoping that you could tell me.”

Sherlock rubbed his temple with two fingers, trying to think. His head was still not working properly.

“Is the body still in the morgue?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll look into it.” With some difficulty, Sherlock leaned over to pick up the cup of water on the side table.

Mycroft nodded distractedly, walking toward the door. He hesitated at the doorway, glancing back at Sherlock.

“I’m pleased you are well,” he said with difficulty.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow as he sipped from his cup.

Mycroft’s eyes were focused on the wall. “If John had not found you in time… your loss would have broken my heart.”

Sherlock choked on the water he had just swallowed. “What the _hell_ am I supposed to say to that?” he said, coughing as he put the cup down with rather more force than was necessary.

“I believe, brother mine, that you can no longer pretend you haven’t fallen prey to sentiment. I can indulge a bit as well. Good day.”

Sherlock glared at the door for several seconds after his brother had left the room.

He lay back, rubbing his eyes with both hands. Magnussen had been murdered, and Mycroft didn’t know by whom, or why. Rare occurrence though that was, something else about the whole thing piqued Sherlock’s interest, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Not long after, the door opened again and John came in with two coffees, glancing around for Mycroft. “I… er… wasn’t sure whether you’d--”

“Thank you.” Sherlock took the steaming cup from him. “Caffeine will help me think. It isn’t nicotine patches, but we could possibly grab some on the way.”

John looked up at him sharply. “On the way?”

Sherlock took a long drink, hoping that some of the fuzziness in his head would clear. “On the way to the crime scene.”

“No,” John snapped.

Sherlock frowned. “No?”

“No. You are not leaving this bed until you’re well, Sherlock. And you are _definitely_ not taking a case.”

“I have to, John, this--”

“Over my dead body,” John said, crossing his arms and standing up straight.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, about to argue, when the rotund nurse walked in with his tea.

“Ah, tea, thank you,” Sherlock said, putting the coffee aside and beaming at her as he took the new cup. He took a sip of the tepid liquid, affecting delight.

John rolled his eyes from behind her and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

“You’re… welcome,” the nurse said guardedly, giving John a dirty look. Sherlock tried not to smile at John’s confused expression.

He glanced at the nurse’s name tag as she checked his chart. “Ariadne. What a beautiful name, Ariadne.” John snorted again, but Sherlock ignored him.

She just raised an eyebrow but didn’t look up. “I’m feeling so much better, undoubtedly thanks to your meticulous care. When do you think I’ll be discharged?”

“Oh, no you don’t, Sherlock--” John began.

“Not until tomorrow,” she said, snapping the chart shut. “You need to eat something, Mr. Holmes. The IV can only do so much.” Throwing another sidelong glance at John, she stomped from the room.

Sherlock frowned, ignoring John’s sniggers from across the room. “It’s not funny,” Sherlock said, crossing his arms.

“No, actually, it is. I’ve never seen that happen before. Women usually fall over themselves for you when you turn on the charm like that.”

“It’s probably due to the fact that she walked in while a certain _man_ was sleeping curled up next to me on my hospital bed.”

John breathed in sharply in surprise, then collapsed into another round of laughter. “Oh, god,” he said covering his face with his hand.

“Stop laughing,” Sherlock said tersely.

“Oh come off it, Sherlock,” John said, wiping his eyes and standing. "Stop being a sourpuss."

"A _sourpuss_?" Sherlock huffed. Shaking his head, John puttered around, adjusting the bedclothes over Sherlock and fluffing his pillow. 

Still sulking, Sherlock glanced around the room. There was a wheelchair in one corner, which gave him an idea. “John, would you get me something to eat? I’m hungry.”

John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock looked up at him innocently. “Nurse’s orders.”

John watched him for a few more seconds, as if trying to decipher whether it was a trick. "Fine. But you better not move from this spot.” He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, and Sherlock could taste the coffee on his lips, and his breath was warm and comforting. When John pulled back he didn’t want to let go-- despite the fact that he was currently trying to get rid of him.  


“I’ll be back in ten,” John said, smiling as he left the room.

Sherlock immediately got out of bed, standing dizzily. He grabbed his IV and walked the few steps over to the wheelchair, sitting down with a huff of air.

He felt exhausted from the effort and more than a bit nauseated, but he knew from experience that he wasn’t in any physical danger. The withdrawal would just make him feel as if he had the flu for a while.

Wheeling himself over to the door, Sherlock poked his head out and looked both ways, but there was no sign of John or the rotund nurse. He made his way quickly to the lift , pressing the button and wheeling himself in.

When the doors opened, Sherlock rolled himself down the hall to the familiar morgue and pushed open the door. Molly was standing in front of Magnussen’s body with her back to him.

“Molly--” he began, but she didn’t turn around, and her frame was trembling slightly.  He froze, realizing that something was wrong.

“Oh damn, I thought you would still be unconscious. Too bad,” he heard a voice say. “Step aside, Molly.”

Molly slowly moved aside, revealing the person behind her.

It was Mary, dressed in all in black, her gun pointed at Sherlock.

In Sherlock’s mind, the entire world stilled around them. All the things he had ever deduced about Mary flashed in front of his eyes, until he had focused on one he had ignored: _Liar_.

“What's going on?” He started to roll forward slightly. 

“Shut up,” she snapped. Without looking away from Sherlock, she held out her hand. “The bullet, please, Miss Hooper.”

With a shaking hand, Molly handed her a bullet.

Sherlock’s mind was whirling, trying to process all of this. Mary had shot Magnussen, and she was retrieving the bullet so that it couldn’t be traced.

But why?  “Mary…” he said slowly.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t move another inch or I swear I will shoot you,” Mary said calmly.

Sherlock frowned, but didn’t move. “No you won’t, Mrs. Watson.”

She sighed, cocking her head to the side as she looked him up and down. “Ah, I see. You made up with my _husband._ John is definitely losing his utility by the second."

Sherlock tried to think fast. In his weakened state, there wasn’t much he could do physically. He would have to hope that if he stalled long enough, help would arrive.

The door behind him burst open.

“Mary?” John said. “Sherlock? What the hell is going on?”

“John, stay back,” Sherlock warned, keeping his eyes trained on Mary.

Mary sighed again. “Oh dear, not you too. Hands up, John.”

“Why did you do it, Mary?” Sherlock said quickly, before John could say something else.

“What, him?” She gestured to Magnussen. “Let’s just say he had something on the boss, and me, for that matter. He was getting tiresome.”

“Boss? What are you talking about?” John walked up until he was level with Sherlock, who held out an arm to stop him.

Mary rolled her eyes. “Slow on the uptake, as usual. Molly, stand over there, please. There’s a good girl.”

Molly walked over to where they were all standing, her hands up.

Mary chewed her lip, looking at all three of them as if they were pieces of meat. “Hmmm. Would the two lovebirds like to share a final kiss? Last act of love and all?”

“Stop it,” Sherlock said between gritted teeth. “Let them go.”

“Tsk, tsk,” Mary clucked. “You’re supposed to be a genius, Sherlock Holmes. You know I can’t do that.” She walked around the metal slab and sat against it, paying no heed to Magnussen’s body behind her.

“The boss wasn’t ready yet, but no matter. We’ll just have to speed up the timeline.”

 _The boss_ wasn’t ready... Sherlock breathed in sharply. _No. It couldn’t be._

“I don’t understand,” John said, his voice more level this time.

Mary snorted. “You should get that on a t-shirt.” 

“It's Moriarty. He’s alive," Sherlock said, his eyes still focused on Mary.

“ _What?_ ” John said from beside him.

Mary smiled widely, her teeth glinting. “It was fun, really, watching all of this from afar, but then I finally got to get my hands dirty. I was meant to stay undercover with John for a good while longer.”

“Why John?” Sherlock said calmly. “You could have used anyone as a cover. Why him?”

She laughed again. “Well done, you’re getting to the _heart_ of the matter, as they say.” She stood up, moving closer to them but keeping her gun trained on John.

“We realized long ago, all the way back at the pool that night, what you two never seemed to be able to see. Since then we knew we had a weapon to use against the great Sherlock Holmes: John. My job was to take away the person you loved most, make you realize just how much you love him, and then smash you to pieces through taking him from you.  I very nearly succeeded. If only that stupid Isaac hadn't needed to be rescued, I would have."

“What about the baby, Mary?” John choked out.

Mary laughed, a harsh, grating sound. Sherlock could see John wince out of the corner of his eye. “What baby? There is no baby. I just told you that so you would stay with me. I had hoped that with the honeymoon and all, I could get pregnant and you wouldn’t be the wiser. But since you were so heartbroken over him, I couldn’t even do _that_. I was going to have to resort to drastic measures, but now I won’t have to. Dodged a bullet, there. I’m not really suited for motherhood.”

John inhaled sharply from beside him, but Sherlock stayed immobile. Moriarty had orchestrated everything. He had planted Mary, ordering her to make John fall in love with him, so that when Sherlock returned...

“Who _are_ you?” John asked, apparently at a loss to comprehend all of this.

Mary made an exasperated noise. “Does it matter? I go by Moran most of the time. Morstan was easy enough to remember, and the previous owner of the name didn’t seem to mind. My real name is neither of those. Who cares? Names mean nothing.”

She cocked her gun, which had a silencer twisted onto the end. “Say goodbye to John, Sherlock.”

“Mary--” Sherlock began.

“No more stalling. If you’re not going to kiss after all…”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. “No, we’ll do it.”

“What? Sherlock--” John started.

“Kiss me, John,” Sherlock said, ripping his gaze from Mary for the first time since he had entered the room. “Please.”

John looked at him in confusion, and Sherlock pleaded with him with his eyes. He could see John’s gun tucked into his trousers, and if John leaned down he could pull it out and fire before Mary had time to react.

Following Sherlock’s gaze, John’s eyes widened in comprehension. Hesitating slightly, he glanced at Mary before he grasped Sherlock’s face. They looked at each other for another long moment.

“I won’t say goodbye,” John murmured, and for a moment Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was acting or not.

“Nor I,” Sherlock said softly, tilting his head upward to touch John’s lips with his. His mouth parted, and they kissed gently and sweetly, as if they truly were saying goodbye.

As he kissed John, Sherlock moved his hand around to the back of John’s trousers, pulling out the gun so that Mary couldn’t see.

Leaning back just a bit, so that they were still sharing the same air, Sherlock whispered, “Vatican cameos,” pushing John down and firing at the same time. It took him a split second to register that not one, but two shots had echoed through the morgue.

 

 


	9. The Butterfly Effect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks bunches to Hannah for having great eyes as usual-- especially since I was so exhausted while I was writing this one. 
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Erin, whose birthday it was yesterday!! Happy Birthday darling!!

At first Sherlock wasn’t sure what had happened. Everything was still and silent. It was as if his mind had paused at the moment he felt the kick from the gun. 

His eyes were fixed on Mary’s, which were a mixture of slight surprise and anger. In a split second, his brain registered that she had also pulled the trigger. He expected to feel pain, but he didn’t. Here in this strange limbo, perhaps he wouldn’t feel the bullet ripping through him.  

Then, in a sudden burst, time sped up... and John crumpled to the floor next to him.

“John!” Sherlock fell out of his wheelchair and started scrabbling with John's clothing, frantically trying to find the wound. He had been shot in the torso, and blood was already darkening his shirt.

“John, hold on--”

“Sher…” John mumbled, his head lolling on his neck before he fell unconscious.

“You have to stop the bleeding.”

Sherlock’s head snapped upward to see Molly, who had picked up Mary’s gun and was now training it at its owner, trembling slightly.

“Fucking hell,” Mary spat, clutching her knee.

“Molly, go and get help,” Sherlock urged, attempting to stay calm despite the roiling feeling in his stomach.

“I can’t leave you--”

“Get help. _Now_ ,” Sherlock snapped. She glanced down at him, breathing heavily, and nodded. Watching Mary carefully, she stepped backward until she could hand Sherlock the gun, then she fled from the room.

Keeping the firearm fixed on Mary, Sherlock started pulling back the layers of clothes with one hand, trying to see how bad the wound was. There was no way to tell whether it had hit any major organs, so he applied a small amount of pressure.

“Don’t you dare die on me, John Watson. Don’t you _dare,_ ” Sherlock said between his clenched teeth.

“Even if he doesn’t die now, he will later,” Mary hissed. “The boss won’t let this go. That’s a promise.”

“Considering you are an assassin-- a sniper, if I'm deducing correctly-- you’re a _terrible_ shot,” Sherlock snapped, not taking his eyes away from John’s now-pale face.

“I had a small disadvantage, given the fact that my patella was blown to bits as I pulled the trigger. Besides, you're not exactly a crack shot yourself.”

"I was only trying to incapacitate you," Sherlock said icily. 

Mary closed her eyes, letting her head fall back slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see her reach inside her pocket with grim resignation.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock panted.

“You think I want to fester in one of your brother’s holding cells day after day, being tortured for information? No _thank you_ ,” she spat, putting the pill between her teeth.

“No! Don’t--” Sherlock reached toward her, but he wasn’t able to move very far, as he was still pressing his hand to John’s torso.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Before Sherlock could say anything further, she bit down, immediately starting to foam at the mouth. Closing his eyes, Sherlock turned away.

The door to the morgue burst open, and there was a lot of noise and movement and people. They gently pulled him to the side, and he watched helplessly as doctors loaded John onto a stretcher and rushed him away, shouting orders.

“What about that one?”

“Cyanide,” Sherlock said blankly. He was still staring at the pool of blood on the floor where John had been, and he couldn’t seem to look away. A hush fell over the remaining people in the room, and someone said something about calling the police.

“Sherlock,” a voice said next to him, but he couldn’t rip his gaze away. That blood had been pumping through John’s veins moments ago. It had flowed out of his body and through Sherlock’s fingertips, his life literally leaking out between Sherlock’s hands.

“Sherlock, come on,” the voice said more insistently, and whoever it was helped him up. His whole body was shaking now. The world was spinning, and it wasn’t only from the withdrawal symptoms. Somewhere in his mind palace, a more rational part of himself diagnosed that he was probably going catatonic.

His mind unfocused. Small moments in time flowed and merged in front of his eyes, one after another. They played before him in reverse, like a horrific rewind. In excruciating detail, he saw the moment right before he had pulled the trigger. He felt John’s lips under his the moment before that. He saw John finding him in a drugged haze, unable to move. His mind reeled back to the sight of John’s eyes as Sherlock played the wedding waltz. Time moved faster now, and he felt John’s body pressing down on his own, the first time… until everything stopped, at the moment in which John’s hand had rested on Sherlock’s knee.

If he hadn’t acted on that, where would they be now? If John died, would it be his fault?

_If John died… if John died…_

Molly’s face appeared in front of him. “Sherlock, can you hear me? Do you remember what happened?”

He didn’t answer, so she turned away again. “I… I think he’s in shock. I’ll stay with him.” There was some shuffling and the sound of a door opening and closing.

Sherlock blinked, trying to focus on what was in front of him, and after some concentration he managed it. He was back in his hospital room, but he couldn’t remember getting there.

It felt as though he had swallowed shards of glass. He gulped, and the pain only increased. “John,” he managed to say.

Molly chewed her lip. “He’s in surgery. Critical condition. We’re lucky he was in a hospital when he was shot.”

 _When he was shot._ His brain couldn’t seem to process this information.

She paused for a moment, as if she were weighing her words, watching his reactions. “Sherlock… Mary’s dead.”

 _Dead. Dead. Dead._ A horrifying chorus of the word resounded in his skill.No, _John_ wasn't dead, not yet.

“I _know_ that,” Sherlock spat, and Molly flinched. He grabbed his hair with both hands, shutting his eyes and trying to stop the deluge of words spinning through his head without respite. This must be what it felt like to lose one's mind.

“I’ll… I’ll go see if I can find out more,” he heard Molly say as she stood up. Without realizing he was doing it, reached out to snatch her wrist.

She turned back to look at him, her eyes widening when she saw the look on his face. She bit her lip and sat on the side of the hospital cot.

He couldn’t seem to speak, but he didn’t have to. After hesitating for another moment, Molly wrapped her arms around him. Sherlock felt himself shuddering, but his arms somehow lifted and he returned the hug. He felt brittle, like a glass figurine that had one too many cracks, and if she let him go he would shatter apart.

Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was taking short, shallow breaths, but that nothing seemed to be getting to his lungs. 

“Shh. It’s going to be all right,” she said soothingly. “If I know anything about John, he won’t let himself die. He wouldn’t do that to you.”

Sherlock didn't reply.

“Sherlock… it’s alright. Calm down...”

Then her arms were gone. 

 

* * *

“Sherlock.”

He heard the voice, but it sounded far away. He was floating in a miasma of grey expanse, not unlike his morphine clouds. He didn’t remember how long he had been there, but it felt like an eternity.

“Sherlock, wake up,” the voice insisted.

Sherlock fought the haze, attempting to bring himself back down to his body. Finally, he was able to open his eyes.

The window across from him was pitch black, which meant time had passed here in the real world. A day? A few hours? He couldn't remember what time it had been when he was last conscious. His mind had been offline for too long, and he was having an unusually difficult time processing everything.

Sherlock let his gaze drift over to his bedside, where Lestrade was watching him with concern. His face instantly relaxed when he saw that Sherlock’s eyes were open.

“What did they… give me?” He had an extremely difficult time forming the words, which was more than a little aggravating.

“They had to sedate you, mate.” Lestrade closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Molly said you were...”

Without warning, everything flowed back into his mind in quick succession. “John,” he half-gasped, sitting up as quickly as he could, which still seemed like a snail’s pace. “Where is he? He’s not--”

Lestrade looked up at him with tired eyes. “No, Sherlock, he’s not dead, but he’s still unconscious. His body went through a lot. His heart stopped at one point during the surgery.”

Sherlock silently cursed whomever had put him in a drug-induced state against his will.  “I need to go to him. Take me to him."

"I will have to check with the doctors--"

" _Now_ ," Sherlock snapped.

Sighing, Lestrade nodded. He helped Sherlock into a wheelchair and took him to a room nearby.

Sherlock stopped the wheels when they had crossed the threshold. Lestrade hesitated behind him for a moment. "I'll leave you two alone," he said.

The deep silence in the room after the door clicked made Sherlock want to throw things, to make noise-- anything at all to disturb the utter quiet.

John was lying on the bed, hooked up to so many machines that Sherlock’s head reeled, and he looked so small. Breakable.

It was so _wrong,_ so unbelievably wrong, for John to be this. John was desert sunlight and wool jumpers. He was deadly eyes of steel staring down the barrel of a gun, and laughter escaping from reddened lips. He was life. He wasn’t this.

Sherlock suddenly understood how John had felt when he had found Sherlock in the drug den. It must have been a thousand times worse when he had seen Sherlock jump from the roof.

Rolling over to the bedside, Sherlock took John’s hand. He ran his fingers over the knuckles, categorizing every minute detail of the rough, calloused hand that had shot a man in defense of him the day after they had met.

Back then, how he had felt towards John had been so strange to him, an unknown variable. But when their eyes had met at the crime scene, he had felt as if hundreds of tiny cogs were clicking into place, one after another, as if it had all been by design. As he had made those steps toward John from the ambulance, it was as if fate were being fulfilled. Of course, he didn’t believe in fate.

Sherlock let his gaze wander to the shoulder scar, John’s first wound, then down to the taped wound on his abdomen. He scowled at the offending material, covering the spot where someone had dared try to rip John Watson apart.

Everything was silent again, and Sherlock found himself closing his eyes against the onslaught of nothingness, which was somehow petrifying.

 

* * *

The sunlight slanted through the window, and time passed. People came in and out. Some tried to talk to him, but he didn’t hear it. Someone left some food for him, but he didn’t touch it.

As the last dying rays of sun filled the room, John’s breathing changed; it was no longer slow and even. When John started choking, Sherlock tightened his hold on John's hand, panic rushing his system as the monitors went haywire.

Doctors rushed in, and Sherlock was pushed to the side as they worked on John. Sherlock's heart was pounding, adrenalin coursing through him until he realized what was actually happening. John was waking up.

Soon his intubation tube was removed and everyone was gone again except for a nurse taking John's vitals. Sherlock moved over to the bedside again, staring at John unblinkingly, not daring to hope.

“Guhhh,” John groaned. He shifted again, wincing, before he slowly blinked his eyes open. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, unable to believe what he was seeing.His brain was slowly starting to come back to itself, like a machine powering back on after long disuse.

“Hey,” John croaked, closing his eyes again.

Sherlock heard himself make a pitiful noise that sounded like a sob, but he didn’t care. The nurse looked at Sherlock, winking briefly before she left the room.

Sherlock bowed his head and kissed the part of John’s body that was the safest and most reachable at the moment-- his hand-- over and over again, tasting salt as tears fell onto John’s skin.

“Hey… what… Sherlock,” John said, moving his hand just slightly (his wound made mobility difficult) to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “What happened?”

Sherlock looked up at him. “You don’t remember?”

John closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. “I remember you kissing me, pulling the gun out of my trousers, then… Jesus, I was shot.”

Suddenly, Sherlock felt overwhelmingly and irrationally angry.“Your powers of observation astound me as usual,” he snapped.

“Oh come off it, Sherlock,” John groaned.

“If you had ducked properly, we would not be in this situation. Have you forgotten what ‘vatican cameos’ means?” _  
_

John sighed in resignation. “Get up here,” he said tiredly.

Still fuming, Sherlock shook his head. John lifted his eyebrows, and Sherlock scowled before he got up, taking John’s face in his hands.

“That’s better.” John reached up with one hand, pulling Sherlock closer until he could feel the warm breath from John’s nose. “Go on then,” he said, unmoving.

"You were just intubated, John."

"I don't care," John whispered.

Sherlock didn’t wait another second, leaning down to kiss John softly, making sure not to jostle him too much.

He caressed John’s lips with his own, sucking on John’s lower lip. John didn’t move his body much, but he twisted his tongue with Sherlock’s hungrily. It was the opposite of their last kiss, which had been a cautious farewell-- they hadn’t known what was going to happen, or whether both of them would live. This kiss was something else entirely.

They were both alive, and they were together. Sherlock hadn’t been able to let it in, not until that moment. Something radiated throughout his body, and he could feel the emotion reflected in John’s kisses, the way his fingertips dug slightly into Sherlock's skin. He had only felt this way once before in his life, and he’d never expected to again, not once John had gone back to Mary. But now the feeling was taking over his entire mind palace, like a giddy child pulling down the curtains and pushing off the covers that had been draped over the furniture. He wasn’t sure what it would be called, but it could be described as joy.

With difficulty, Sherlock pulled back.“You are not allowed to do that ever again.”

John raised an eyebrow. “What? Almost die? Oh, so you’re the only one who’s allowed to get himself killed? That’s bloody fantastic.”

Sherlock frowned. “You’re _not allowed_ to die before me. I forbid it.”

John half-laughed, but he stopped quickly, grimacing in pain. “You’re going to make sure of that, are you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said quickly, fully aware that it was completely nonsensical.

John shook his head and smiled up at him. “Let me get this straight. In our old age-- if we ever get to it, which is looking more and more unlikely-- you’ll somehow physically stop me from dying first? I’d like to see you try.”

The full impact of John’s words hit Sherlock with the force of a freight train. Our old age. _Our._ John was speaking as if they were going to be together that long. 

Sherlock’s mind flashed through hundreds of possible futures, settling on an older vision of himself reading the paper in his wizened hands. It was out in the country somewhere, and bees were buzzing in the background. John was fixing him tea as usual, puttering around in the kitchen. He set it down next to Sherlock and kissed his temple absently as if he had done it thousands of times.

John fidgeted slightly, and Sherlock realized that he had been staring at John for several seconds without moving or blinking.

“Okay, that’s getting a bit scary.” John cracked a half-smile. Sherlock couldn’t breathe. 

“Our old age,” Sherlock repeated, sounding like a complete and total dunce.

Dark clouds formed in John’s expression as he realized what Sherlock was thinking. “Mary…” he started.

“She’s… she’s gone, John. I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, taking his hand again.

“ _What_?” John choked out. “Did you…” his voice trailed off.

“No, I only injured her. I wanted to take her hostage and interrogate her about Moriarty. She had other ideas.”

“I can’t believe… I can’t…” John couldn’t seem to form a full sentence. 

There was nothing left of his previous life now. Mary, the baby, all of it had been a lie. All that remained was the two of them, battered and bruised and left to sort through the wreckage.

As John opened his eyes again, a tear escaped the corner of his eye. Sherlock kissed it from his cheek, trying to shoulder John's pain as his own.

“I would never recover if you ceased to exist,” Sherlock whispered against his skin.

John choked slightly, obviously still overwhelmed. “I never would either. I think the two years when you were gone showed how well I handled that.”

Sherlock gingerly rested his forehead against John’s. Neither of them moved for a long moment, simply breathing each others’ air.

“Sherlock,” John started to say.

“No,” Sherlock mumbled, knowing what was coming next.

“Sherlock, what about… him?” John asked.

Sherlock sighed, leaning backward. He felt weak, but at least he finally seemed strong enough to stand. He turned towards the window, crossing his arms. “Don’t worry about him. I’ll handle him.”

“Not bloody likely. We both know how well _that_ turned out last time.”

“He knows about us, John. He _knows_.” Everything had been an elaborate plan to destroy Sherlock. Moriarty had pushed Sherlock and John together in order to rip them apart. But why? Why had he done any of it?

“Sherlock,” John said, exasperatedly. “Sherlock, come back over here. Please.”

Sherlock turned to look at John, who had shifted just a bit to the side of the bed.

“No,” Sherlock said immediately. “You’re too injured.”

“Oh, so it’s okay for me to crawl into your hospital bed, but not the other way round? I’m a bloody doctor, and I say it’s alright. For whatever reason, I have a huge bed. I think we’ll fit.”

Sherlock took in the size of the bed for the first time since he had entered the room, and it was, indeed, much larger than a normal hospital cot.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, but he walked over to the bed all the same.

He lay down next to John as gently as possible, and John immediately rested his head on Sherlock’s chest with a sigh.

“Whatever we do, we’re going to do it together,” John mumbled. “I’m serious.”

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock watched John’s eyes close, his light eyelashes fanned out against his too-pale cheeks.

“Sherlock,” John said in his warning tone.

Sherlock swallowed. “I won’t do anything that puts you in danger,” he whispered.

John blinked his eyes open again. “That’s not for you to decide. It’s not just you anymore. It’s _us_. We make decisions together.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, because he couldn’t actually find words to respond to that. Instead, he turned slightly to kiss John’s temple, letting his lips linger for longer than was strictly necessary. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” John said sleepily. Sherlock watched him doze as the light faded from the room. Out there, somewhere in the darkness, Moriarty was fuming, planning his next attack. Sherlock shied away from the thought, instead concentrating on the beating heart and warm breath of the body in his arms.

In a few minutes, he would fetch Mycroft to tell him about Mary. But not yet.

 


	10. The Camellia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks oodles and bunches to Erin and Hannah for being great betas as usual (especially editing at really random times right after I ask them to). You guys are rock stars.

 

Over the next several days the hospital room slowly filled with “get well soon” cards and bouquets of flowers. An obnoxiously large number of people came to visit-- Lestrade, Mike Stamford, even Harry. Mrs. Hudson made a great display over puttering around and fussing over John. No one mentioned Mary.  

Lestrade wanted to question John, but Sherlock had refused, insisting that his statement and Molly’s were more than adequate for now. The investigation was open-and-shut: attempted murder-suicide, three witnesses. 

Despite the fact that the investigation was closed, Mary’s death had become a news sensation overnight. Moreover, once the press discovered that she had killed Magnussen, they had started calling her “Bloody Mary.” It was inevitable, really. When a handsome newlywed couple’s life ends in murder and tragedy, the tabloids are sure to pounce. Someone had leaked pictures of the wedding, and John and Mary’s smiling faces were splashed across every newspaper in London with headlines such as “ _Honeymoon from Hell,” “Army Vet Marries Murderess,”_ and _“Why did she do it?”_

Thankfully, John was mostly distracted by Sherlock’s struggles with withdrawal, especially once his bed was moved into John’s room. The first week was the hardest. Though he had suffered them many times before, the symptoms were no less volatile. He couldn’t sleep, his muscles cramped up agonizingly, and it felt like a drill was boring into his skull for days on end. He would turn and lay with his back to John as his whole body shook uncontrollably.

John was too incapacitated to do anything for him physically, so instead he talked. He recounted old cases, describing how he would write up some of the ones that had never been posted on his blog. He talked about things that had happened while Sherlock was ‘dead.’  He even talked about the war, a subject he had rarely breached before. 

Every once in a while, Sherlock would run to the bathroom to be violently sick. When he reemerged and collapsed back in bed, John would pick up talking exactly where he had left off as if nothing had happened. If Sherlock snapped at him to shut up, John ignored him. In truth, the distraction was welcome, but Sherlock would never have admitted it.

Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, John had hallucinatory nightmares. He would struggle against the bedsheets in his drugged sleep, reaching out towards the shadows in his dreams. From the small snatches of almost-nonsensical speech he uttered, Sherlock gathered that he was reliving the scene in the morgue, over and over again.

Worried that John would rip his stitches, Sherlock would climb into his bed and hold him carefully. Still asleep, John would clutch at Sherlock’s shirt, trembling, until the closeness of Sherlock’s body calmed him. The nurses eventually learned not to bat an eyelash when they found their two patients in the same bed come morning. 

One day, Sherlock awoke to find that the waves of nausea had finally dissipated. Though it still turned his stomach slightly, he made an effort to keep food down-- if only to appease John.

John’s wound healed slowly. Days turned into weeks. Sherlock refused to leave the hospital, so Mycroft had clothes brought for him. 

One morning, Sherlock had gone out to smoke a cigarette, and when he returned John had the telly on. An idiotic news anchor was discussing “Bloody Mary” and how close-lipped NSY had been about the whole affair.  They were interviewing a conspiracy theorist who claimed that John had actually killed Magnussen, then Mary, and that it had all been a massive cover-up by none other than Sherlock Holmes. 

John was staring at the screen, wide-eyed. Sherlock quickly turned off the telly, unceremoniously sitting on John’s bed and taking him in his arms. Neither of them said a word.  

 

* * *

“Hasn’t this become tiresome yet?” Mycroft said sourly, grimacing at the cup of tea Sherlock set in front of him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting in the uncomfortable cafeteria chair. “Yes, now that you mention it, your visits _are_ tiresome. Feel free to leave.” 

Mycroft sighed in exasperation, moving the paper cup two inches to the right with a look of disgust and clasping his hands on the table. “You know to what I was referring.” 

“I refuse to leave him here.”

“I have men guarding John day and night. You needn’t worry.”  

Sherlock met Mycroft’s gaze, narrowing his eyes.   

“Needn’t worry? You honestly believe that you can stop him? We still don’t even know why he had Mary kill Magnussen.”

“We don’t need to know _why_ at this juncture. Moriarty’s capture is higher priority.”

“You won’t find him. Not unless he wants to be found,” Sherlock said bitterly. 

Mycroft pressed his lips together. “Have you reconsidered the other matter?” he asked, changing the subject. “You will have to decide soon, he’s going to be discharged.” 

“Out of the question,” Sherlock said tersely, avoiding his gaze. 

Sighing, Mycroft stood. “The offer stands. I will keep you apprised of the situation. Meanwhile, I’m having Baker Street turned into a veritable fortress of security.” Sherlock scowled at his brother’s back. 

Mycroft paused, not turning around. “Believe it or not, I have your best interests at heart, little brother,” he said quietly, before he strode out of the cafeteria.

Throwing away the atrocious cups of tea, Sherlock strode back to John’s room, closing the door with more force than was strictly necessary and leaning back against it.

John glanced up from the book he was reading, frowning when he saw Sherlock’s expression. 

“Mycroft?” he asked.  

Sherlock said nothing, scowling and walking over to sit next to John on his bed. John put his book down and wrapped his arm around Sherlock, who gingerly laid his head on John’s shoulder.The wound had healed over, but Sherlock was still careful with him. 

“I don’t suppose you want to talk about it?” 

Sherlock simply grunted, turning his nose to John’s neck and inhaling deeply. 

John sighed, but he didn’t press the issue, instead turning to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. 

“Guess what?” 

“John. I never guess.”

A low chuckle rumbled in John’s chest. “Humour me.” 

“Your doctor said you may be discharged tomorrow. Obvious.”

John sighed. “You’re no fun.”  

Sherlock swallowed carefully. So many times over the past week, the question had been on the tip of his tongue, but he had never been able to form the words. But he didn’t know how John would react.

John poked him lightly. “Stop it. I can practically hear that big brain of yours working too hard.”

Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, wordlessly, and sat up. He felt John’s hand stroking between his shoulderblades, a light and comforting gesture. 

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be fine.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, about to reply, when his gaze happened to fall on a new arrangement of red flowers on the table near the door. There were so many bouquets in the room, he wouldn’t have necessarily taken note of this new one. From this angle, however, he could see the note written in slanting cursive: “ _I.O.U. And I always keep my promises._ ” 

Sherlock sprang up from the bed and strode the few feet over to the table. He turned the card over in his hands, but it was obviously written by the flower shop. It couldn’t be traced to the sender.  

“Sherlock? What just happened? Talk to me.” 

Sherlock could hear John starting to struggle out of bed. He turned back, attempting to affect nonchalance.  

“Nothing, it’s nothing.” He tried to shepherd John back into bed, but John wasn’t buying it. He looked the vase in Sherlock’s hands suspiciously. 

“It’s obviously not nothing. What’s with the bouquet?” 

Sherlock hesitated for another moment, but it was too late. “Very well. But only if you lay down again first.” 

“I’m _fine_ \--” 

“John.”

Rolling his eyes, John moved back over to his bed, lying down gingerly. Sherlock stayed by the door, holding the offensive blooms.  

“Back in bed, safe and sound. So?” 

“Red camellias.”  

John raised an eyebrow. “Okay, you already lost me.”

Sherlock set his jaw grimly. “In floriography, flowers are like a language. Each genus and color has a very specific meaning.” 

After a few seconds of silence, John prompted, “So what do these mean?” 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Red camellias mean… ‘you are a flame in my heart.’” 

John frowned in confusion. so Sherlock sighed, crossing the room to hand him the card.

“What does that remind you of?”

John squinted, reading, and after a moment he went slightly pale.

 

_I always keep my promises._

_I owe you._

 

“ _I will burn the heart out of you,_ ” John quoted, looking at the flowers warily. “They’re from... him.”

"So it would seem."

“I see,” John mused. His eyes flicked to the blooms as he stroked one thumb absentmindedly over his lower lip. 

When John looked back up at him, his entire posture and gaze had changed. He was no longer John-the-invalid; he was John-the-soldier, the man who had stared down death more times than he could count.

“He won’t get to you. I won’t let him,” John said. His voice was soft, but it carried an undercurrent of steel.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, no. He’s not threatening _me._ Not directly.”

John stared at him uncomprehendingly, and Sherlock made another noise of exasperation, running his hand through his hair.  “Really, John. Do keep up.” 

“Oh,” John said with dawning comprehension. "The threat… it’s against me.”

“You are a marvel of intellect today,” Sherlock snapped, striding over to the door and throwing the flowers into the hall with a resounding crash.

“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone. 

Closing the door unceremoniously, Sherlock rested his forehead against the wood. "You’re my heart, John. You always have been, even back at the pool that day. And he _knows_."  Releasing the handle, he turned back to John. "That's why--"

“Why he set Mary on me,” John finished for him, leaning back against his pillow and digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

Sherlock hesitated. “Yes.” 

John paused. “Sherlock, what were you going to say before you noticed the--”

The door opened, interrupting him, and his doctor strode in. “Good afternoon, John. Mr. Holmes,” he said, nodding in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock simply scowled, turning his back to them and walking over to stare out the window.

“Dr. Williams,” John said politely, throwing a dirty look in Sherlock’s direction.

The doctor walked over to John’s bedside check his chart. “Hmm. Good. Hmm,” he mused, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Alright, John. It looks like you can go home today,” the doctor said, snapping his chart shut with a flourish.

“Really? I thought you said tomorrow.”

“You aren’t going to improve any further by tomorrow. Your wound is healed over, and your vitals are stable. Just don’t run a marathon anytime soon.” He and John chuckled, and Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“What about--” John cleared his throat slightly. “Light physical activity?”

The doctor paused, glancing back at Sherlock. “That should be fine. Just don’t overdo it.” He paused again. “Also, for what it’s worth, both your and Mr. Holmes’ bloodwork has come back negative.”

“Thank you,” John said. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see him blushing deep red.

“My pleasure, John. I’ll have Ariadne bring a wheelchair.” Sherlock heard the door open and close again.

John grinned widely, leaning back to stretch. “Thank god. It will so be good to get out of here. I'd love a proper shower, for one thing.” He got up and started changing into the jumper and jeans Mycroft had provided for him. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, remaining taciturn.

After lacing up his shoes, John walked over to Sherlock. He felt John’s hands slip around his waist as he planted a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. With a sigh, Sherlock gave in and turned around, grasping John’s neck and letting his thumbs trail up John’s jawline.

“That’s better,” John murmured, tilting his face up to kiss Sherlock softly. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you now? Is it something other than the obvious?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly.

John started kissing under Sherlock’s jaw, down his throat, everything he could reach. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m okay. We’re both okay. We’ll make it through this again, together.”

Sherlock leaned down to kiss him again properly, and John's lips parted eagerly. His hands slid down to grasp Sherlock’s arse, and the kiss became more heated. Between John’s injuries and his own withdrawal, they hadn’t touched like this in far too long, and Sherlock realized how much he had been craving it.

“ _Ahem_ ,” they heard from the doorway. Sherlock broke away from John immediately.

“Buzzkill,” John mumbled, grinning as he stepped back. 

“Your wheelchair, sir,” Ariadne said loudly, looking as rotund and as irritated as always. “Your taxi will be here shortly.”

“Thank you, Ariadne,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand once before releasing it. 

“Mr. Holmes-- the other Mr. Holmes-- has arranged for your things to be sent directly to your residence,”Ariadne said, starting to push John from the room. Sherlock grabbed his Belstaff, glancing around the room once more before he followed. 

Ariadne helped John into the waiting taxi, and Sherlock got in after him. His phone pinged-- Mycroft, no doubt-- but he ignored it.

“221B Baker Street,” John said confidently as Sherlock closed the door. Keeping his face blank and acting disinterested, Sherlock gazed out the window.

John frowned, watching him. “That’s… okay, isn’t it?” he said cautiously.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock clipped, pretending to be preoccupied.

John groaned. “Oh, _that’s_ what you were worried about.” 

Sherlock made a noncommital noise.

“You’re a right dunce sometimes, you know that? Why didn’t you just ask? You think I want to go back to my other flat? The one I...” he trailed off. 

He didn’t have to end the sentence; Sherlock knew what he would have said. _The one I shared with Mary._

Sherlock reached for John’s hand, and John’s fingers interlaced with his own as if they were meant to be there. He leaned down to kiss John's knuckles.

“I suspected as much, but I didn’t know how to ask.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” John said.

“John.”

“Oh don’t be like that, nearly everyone is,” John quipped. Sherlock chuckled, but he didn't release John's hand.

They finally arrived at the familiar street, and Sherlock helped John up the stairs (despite his protests). As Sherlock put up their coats, he watched John wander into the kitchen. His mobility seemed almost normal at this point, though he would most likely still be in pain sometimes.

“We’ll have to get my things here somehow,” John mused, filling the kettle.

“Mycroft will dispatch some of his minions to do it,” Sherlock said, waving a hand dismissively. He leaned against the doorframe, attempting not to marvel too visibly at the sight of John in his kitchen. He couldn't quite let it sink in that John was living with him again, and that this time he wouldn't leave.

“Hey.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I asked what kind of tea you want,” John said, smirking as he skirted the kitchen table to stand in front of Sherlock. “But obviously, you weren’t paying attention. As usual.”

Smiling fondly, he reached up to graze Sherlock’s cheek with his thumb. He stood up on his toes for a kiss, and Sherlock leaned into it automatically. There was nothing holding them back now;. Mary was gone, John was here, and he was his. 

John plundered his mouth hungrily, not holding back at all this time. He slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair, twisting it between his fingers, and pushed him backward into the wall. He twisted until their hips ground against each other, and Sherlock moaned, his head falling backward slightly. He wanted to take control, flip them around and press John into the wall, but he couldn’t risk it. Not with John’s injury.  

“God, I want you, I want you so badly,” John said, kissing down Sherlock’s throat.

“John,” Sherlock protested. “You can’t. Not yet--”

“The doctor said it’s fine. I’ve waited long enough,” John growled, untucking Sherlock’s shirt and running his hands up Sherlock’s back. “I wanted to suck you off so many times in hospital, you have no idea. I imagined bending you over the hospital cot and taking you from behind, working you open nice and slowly first.” 

Sherlock groaned again, his eyes falling shut. John bit lightly in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, as his hands moved around to the front of Sherlock’s shirt, deftly undoing buttons. 

“What do you want?” John whispered into his ear, setting a shiver down Sherlock’s spine. 

“You,” Sherlock breathed. 

“Bedroom. Now.” John growled, pushing him towards the hallway. 

Sherlock stumbled towards his room, walking backwards so that they didn’t break their embrace, shedding clothing as they went. Sherlock’s shirt was half-off, and he pulled John’s jumper over his head as they reached the bedroom. 

John pushed him face down onto the bed, kissing down his back and unbuckling his trousers at the same time. Sherlock automatically arched upward as John pressed his mouth into his hips. 

Throwing Sherlock’s trousers and pants to the floor, John draped himself over Sherlock. His chest was bare, and Sherlock shuddered in pleasure just from the feeling of his bare skin against John’s. John continued to leave open-mouthed kisses all over his body, and Sherlock felt warm curling tendrils of happiness blooming in his center. This wasn’t just about reaching orgasm; John was making love to him.

“You’re mine, all mine,” John mumbled into his skin, pulling Sherlock’s face around to kiss him hungrily. 

Just as suddenly, his lips were gone. Sherlock was already panting, his erection trapped beneath him. John pulled his hips upward, kissing along his arse as he pulled the cheeks apart. 

Sherlock looked backward, his eyes widening.

“Eyes front, soldier,” John ordered. 

Sherlock didn’t say a word, turning to bury his face in the mattress and trying not to moan too loudly. He could feel John’s tongue licking beneath his ball sack, up his perineum, and Sherlock whimpered into the bedclothes. 

John paused. “You okay?” he asked, smoothing his hand down Sherlock’s back. 

“God, yes, please, yes, don’t-- don’t stop--” Sherlock stuttered, his voice muffled. 

John chuckled, his hot breath unfurling over Sherlock’s skin. He resumed his caresses, reaching underneath with one hand to tease Sherlock’s balls at the same time.  

Then his tongue flicked into Sherlock’s hole, retreating quickly before pressing inward again, and Sherlock gasped. It was so hot, wet, slick, unlike anything Sherlock had ever felt before. John grasped him by the hips, pulling him upward for a better angle. Hardening his tongue, he flicked inward and Sherlock cried out in earnest, grabbing a pillow and biting down. John started to fuck Sherlock with his tongue, over and over again. Sherlock reached down to stroke his own cock, but John batted away his hand. 

Groaning at the lack of release, his face still pressed against against the pillow, Sherlock felt his hips move back involuntarily to meet John’s mouth. Then, suddenly, the wet heat was gone, replaced with two of John’s fingers. Pushing backward against them, Sherlock moaned again. 

He felt John’s breath against his ear. “What do you want?” 

Sherlock only whined, so John pulled out his fingers, pushing three in. 

“Fuck,” Sherlock spat. 

“What’s that?” 

“Please, please, John, please,” Sherlock babbled.

He heard John pull his trousers off completely, and Sherlock dared to sneak a look backward at the sound of something uncapping.

“What--”

“I had an accomplice sneak me some lubricant from the supply room. I thought I might need it.” John slicked himself quickly, pressing his lubricated fingers into Sherlock again until he completely forgot to ask who the ‘accomplice’ was. 

“John,” he whimpered. 

“What? Tell me. Tell me what you want,” John said, torturing him deftly with his fingers.

“Please,” Sherlock panted. “Fuck me, John, please.” 

“If you insist.” John’s fingers were gone and moment later his length slid in. Sherlock cried out in relief-- but John pushed inward slowly, torturously. Then he stilled, holding Sherlock’s hips in a vicelike grip, not letting him move. Sherlock tried to squirm against him, push backward, anything to get his release.

“You’re mine,” John whispered, pulling out tantalizingly slowly, before pushing back in even more steadily. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours, I’m yours,” Sherlock panted, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.

Hitching Sherlock’s hips up farther, John let his cock press against Sherlock’s prostate, lingering there before pulling out slowly again. He pressed kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder blades, his hands smoothing over Sherlock’s waist.

“Yes, you are,” John said between kisses. “And I’m yours, too.”

“Please, John,” Sherlock begged again.  John reached down to stroke his cock in a long pull, before releasing him again, then moving up to tweak Sherlock’s nipples, one after the other. He pushed his cock inward, slow, so slow, and Sherlock moaned into the pillow. 

“Let-- let me hear you,” John panted. Sherlock lifted his face, slick with sweat, from the mattress, whimpering again pitifully. 

John seemed to lose control at the sound, jerking Sherlock’s face towards him to kissing him vigorously as he started pumping harder. He reached down to stroke Sherlock’s cock again, hard and fast, until Sherlock was practically sobbing with relief. They were too far apart to keep kissing for long. Growling with frustration, John flipped Sherlock over, and Sherlock quickly wrapped his legs around John to deepen the angle. John’s eyes were dark as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock deeply, snapping his hips inward again, again, and again. Sherlock raked his fingers down John’s back, pulling him by the hips, trying to get closer even though it was impossible. 

John reached down with one hand to stroke him again, slowly at first, as he kissed down his neck to suck on his pulse.  

Sherlock grasped John’s arse desperately. “John,” he gasped again, unable to form a sentence.

“Shhh, it’s alright, my love,” John breathed as he thrust inward more vigorously. “I have you. I’m not letting go. I won’t.”

He stroked Sherlock even more firmly, tilting Sherlock’s hips upward until he found the perfect angle, thrusting into it again and again.

“Oh, John, god, John…” 

“Come for me, love,” John coaxed, leaning down to kiss him again. 

That was it, that was all he could stand. Sherlock came with a burst of stars through his vision, clenching around John’s body with his name on his lips. After a few more thrusts, John followed him, his cries muffled into Sherlock’s neck. 

They lay there, unmoving, for several long seconds. Sherlock could feel John softening inside him, but he didn’t want John to pull out. He wanted to lie like this, connected, forever. 

Eventually, John raised his head, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. “That was…”

“Amazing,” Sherlock breathed. 

“Do you know you do that out loud?” John said, smirking as Sherlock laughed. 

John pulled out, carefully, and stood up on wobbly legs. He disappeared for a moment, and Sherlock heard running water. John returned with a wet flannel, wiping Sherlock down carefully, tenderly, and Sherlock let his eyes wander over his body. As John cleaned himself off, Sherlock ran his fingers over the pink scar tissue on John’s stomach. Soon it would be just another scar, like the one on his shoulder. Another reminder of how close he had come to being taken from Sherlock.

John threw the flannel on the floor, pulling the sheet up as he lay down. He tucked his head in Sherlock’s neck and threw an arm across Sherlock’s waist, breathing in deeply. 

Sherlock watched John drift off in the mid-afternoon sunlight, their legs intertwined, and it was almost as if time had rewound to that one day, months ago. All the pain they had both gone through wasn’t forgotten, but it seemed to become less potent with the dying sun, fading away like a misremembered dream. 

His phone pinged in his trousers, but he ignored it, stroking John’s arm lightly. It pinged twice more within ten minutes. Groaning, he finally gave in and reached down to pluck it from his trousers, trying not to wake John. 

There were several texts from an unknown number, including the one from when they had left the hospital. Frowning, Sherlock opened the texts.

 

_12:34 Unknown number: Did you miss me?_

_13:53 Unknown number: I hope you liked the flowers. I thought they were something… special._

_15:07 Unknown number: Don’t ignore me, darling. It’s rude._

_15:49 Unknown number: I’ll have to make a house call soon if you don’t reply._

_15:50 Unknown number: I know John is just dying to see me._

 

Sherlock simply stared at the screen, his whole body tensing involuntarily. 

After a momentary hesitation, he quietly slipped out of John’s arms, grabbing his dressing robe and slipping it on. Making his way into the living room, he ignored the texts, thumbing his contacts list instead and choosing a number.

He tapped his foot impatiently, though it only rang twice.

“Brother mine,” the answering voice said dryly. 

Sherlock paused, chewing his lip as he walked over to the window. 

“Well?” Mycroft prompted tersely. 

He sighed, looking down on Baker Street. “I’m taking you up on your offer.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In floriography, the red Camellia really does mean “you are a flame in my heart.”


	11. The Holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannah and Erin are my heroes and biggest cheerleaders. I love you both.

Long after he had hung up with Mycroft, Sherlock stood in front of the window, absentmindedly tapping he phone against his closed lips.

Though he had already made the decision and put the plan in action, he still felt uneasy. He loathed putting the power in someone else’s hands.

“Sherlock?” 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly to compose himself before he turned. John was standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but his boxers.

“What’s wrong?” John moved toward him, a note of concern in his expression. “Why are you standing in the dark?” 

Sherlock blinked, glancing around the dimly lit room. It _was_ dark; he hadn’t realized how much time had passed. He frowned slightly. “Why would you think that something is wrong?"

John turned on a light as he walked up to Sherlock.

“Because I know you better than you think,” John said quietly.  Sherlock uncrossed his arms, slipping his phone into the pocket of his dressing robe and curling a hand around John’s neck.

“Is that so?” Sherlock asked softly, letting his voice drop to a much lower register.

“No fair,” John groaned, sliding his hands around Sherlock’s waist. “I don’t have weapons like that in my arsenal to use against you.”

Sherlock smirked. “All’s fair in love and war.” He leaned inward slightly, building up the anticipation for a kiss. “But for the record, you do have, as you say, ‘weapons’ in your arsenal.”

“If only I knew what they were, so I could take advantage.” John sighed. “Which is it, then?”

Sherlock paused, running his thumb over John’s lips distractedly. “Hmm?”

“Is this love or war? Or both?”

Sherlock stiffened involuntarily, and John raised his eyebrows. “It’s him, isn’t it? You can’t stop thinking about Moriarty.”

"No." Sherlock attempted to step back, but John held him firmly in place.

“I told you, it will be alright. We’ve faced him before, haven’t we? More than once.”

Sherlock licked his lips.  “It’s not that simple anymore. Now I’m vulnerable because I have something to lose, and he knows it. He orchestrated all of this, made me realize that I...” he looked downward, unable to finish the sentence.

“That you love me?” John finished. “I know. Do you really think I haven’t thought about that? He set me up to fall in love with Mary-- Moran, whoever she was-- on purpose. I know I don’t matter to him, but you do. He wanted to get to you, so he used the best weapon he could think of."

“Love is a vicious motivator,” Sherlock said bitterly. 

“So is the fear of losing it.” John sighed. “It doesn’t make me love you any less. Just because he saw it before we did. Or because he spurred us to act on it.”

“By hurting you.” Sherlock hoped John hadn’t heard the slight crack in his voice. 

John sighed and reached up to clasp Sherlock’s face in his hands. “It’s not easy, I’ll grant you. Trying to forget what Mary did to me-- to us-- will take time. But I won’t be sorry it was what brought us together.” He pressed his lips together. “Will you just promise me one thing? No more secrets. Don’t keep things from me again, not like Bart’s. Okay?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer, instead tilting John’s head up for a kiss. John leaned into the embrace, his lips pleading with Sherlock silently: _Don’t shut me out. Don’t go where I can’t follow._

 _I can’t,_ Sherlock thought _._ If the choice was between keeping John safe and having to lie to him again, he would choose the latter every time. Sherlock leaned back just a fraction, opening his eyes. “I promise,” he lied. 

John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s once more before drawing back. “You know what I want? I want some takeout, and then I want to take you back to bed.”

Sherlock smiled. From his pocket, his phone pinged again, and he rolled his eyes. “Mycroft,” he said, pulling it out. It was another text from the unknown number. He ignored it, instead thumbing the number for their favorite Thai restaurant. “Green curry?"

 

* * *

“But it makes no _sense_ , John,” Sherlock groaned, taking another bite of pad see ew.  “How can the inside of a police phone box possibly be that big? And why are these people so willing to be abducted by an ancient humanoid alien?”

John, who was in the kitchen opening another beer, rolled his eyes. “It’s sci-fi, Sherlock. You know, suspension of disbelief. Haven’t you ever read science fiction? Jules Verne?”

Sherlock scoffed, throwing the container on the coffee table and sprawling on the sofa. “Of course I have. _This_ is not Jules Verne.”

Wandering back into the living room, John lifted Sherlock’s head up so that he could sit down, and Sherlock settled his head in John’s lap.

“Verne was considered to be verging on fantasy in his time, you know. He predicted inventions like the submarine and space travel,” John pointed out. He started carding his hand through Sherlock’s hair as he watched the telly.

“When someone invents a time-traveling police box, we can revisit this discussion. What kind of a name is ‘Doctor Who,’ anyway?”

John snorted, shaking his head. “His name isn’t Doctor _Who_. It’s _The Doctor_. Just The Doctor. Not everyone can have as sensible a name as Sherlock or Mycroft.”

Sherlock scowled. “Then the title is incongruous.”

“Just shut up and let me watch.”

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes flicking over John's face. He would have to bring up the plan soon; they would be leaving in the morning. For completely self-indulgent reasons, he hadn't brought it up yet. He wanted to see this John-- _his_ John-- relaxed and happy in their flat, just for a little longer.  

His eyes roamed over the face he had observed so many times before, yet somehow always seemed different. John’s hair was still slightly disheveled from their earlier activities, and he had new worry lines around the corners of his eyes. Sherlock let his eyes linger on John’s lips, imagining how they would taste right now-- of beer and eastern spices, most likely.

John glanced down, his mouth quirking up into a grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly, turning back to look at the telly. John caught his face with one hand and pulled it back, leaning down to kiss Sherlock slowly, sucking on his bottom lip.

“I still can’t get over that I can do that anytime I want,” John whispered as he leaned back. “I don’t think I ever will.”

Sherlock sighed contentedly, leaning into John’s hand as he continued to stroke Sherlock’s hair. 

“You know, you get a certain look in your eyes when you want a kiss,” John said, smirking. 

“I-- what?” Sherlock frowned.

“No, don’t think about it too much. I don’t want you to stop.” 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pulled John down one-handedly for another kiss. It was still a rather awkward angle, so John shifted around until he was laying on top of Sherlock. 

They snogged lazily, neither of them intending it to go any further, simply enjoying the feeling of each others’ bodies and skin. 

As John started leaving slow kisses down behind his ear, Sherlock pressed his lips together. “John, I--” he cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

John froze momentarily, then continued about his work. “Uh-oh,” he mumbled, nibbling on Sherlock’s earlobe. "I'll admit, that doesn't usually happen while I'm still snogging the person in question-- especially since I've been told I'm a first-rate kisser. You're wounding my pride."

Sherlock felt a strange pit in his stomach, followed by confusion. It was an emotion he didn’t feel often and wasn’t fond of. “What are you talking about?" 

John leaned back slightly, grinning. “That’s the sentence you usually lead with when you’re trying to break up with someone, even if you’re doing it in a nice way." 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, flabbergasted. “I-- no. I wasn’t. I didn’t--” he stammered. 

“I know,” John interrupted. “I was just teasing. I wouldn’t give up that easily, anyway.”

He shifted so that he was lying with his back to the couch. It was so narrow that he was still half-lying on Sherlock and their bare feet were intertwined. He reached up to brush a few curls away from Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock pursed his lips together, kicking himself silently for saying the wrong thing yet again. “John, I’m sorry, I-- I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never been… _with_ someone. Not like this.” 

John watched Sherlock for a moment, his face turning serious. “I know that. I meant what I said. I wouldn’t leave even if you asked me to.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “You…” He faltered.

“I’m not going anywhere. For me, this... this is it.” 

Sherlock felt completely out of his depth. He didn’t understand what John was trying to say, and it was unbelievably frustrating. He could remember thousands of details at the drop of a hat or deduce someone’s life story from a split-second glance. Matters of the heart had always been beyond his comprehension, but it had never mattered before.

John’s jaw worked as he swallowed. “God. I hadn’t really planned on telling you this yet. Um,” he ducked his head slightly. "How can I put this in a way that you'll understand?" he muttered.

After a minute, he nodded, as if making a decision, and let his eyes rise to meet Sherlock’s. 

“Remember what you said to me that night? When you caught my wrist?” 

Sherlock frowned at the apparent _non sequitur._ “Yes, I remember.” 

“I told you that I wanted you, too.”  

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, still feeling uncomfortably confused. _  
_

Licking his lips, John paused another moment before he said, “I will _always_ want you.” 

John’s eyes flicked over Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock tensed slightly under the scrutiny. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. John twisted a curl at the base of Sherlock’s neck between two fingers, waiting patiently for Sherlock to process the information.

John was telling him something he already knew, wasn’t he? They had already established this long ago. There were obstacles thrown in their path-- Mary, the baby, the wedding-- but their love for each other, once declared,had never been in question. 

His mind whirred. Love can be fleeting, and it can be unrequited. Loved ones can be separated, and taken from each other by circumstance.  

 _I will_ _always_ _ want you._ 

It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t a declaration of love. 

It was a realization; a promise. It was a question that each of them had been silently asking, but neither of them had realized that they had known the answer all along. 

Sherlock exhaled, comprehension suddenly illuminating him like the sun breaking through a cloudbank. It was so obvious, it had been staring him in the face. 

John was telling him that he wanted to stay with him,  _a_ _lways._ Sherlock had never been able to contemplate a future, never dared to dream of being with John like this, let alone forever.   

The vision he’d had of them together in old age flashed before Sherlock’s eyes. Neither of them had said it in so many words, but they both wanted a lifetime together.

“I can practically hear the wheels turning,” John said, grinning.

“Bees,” Sherlock blurted out. 

John frowned. “Okay, not exactly what I was expecting--”

Sherlock pulled John down to kiss him vociferously, stopping him mid-sentence.

After a moment, John relaxed. Sherlock couldn’t put how he felt into words, so he poured it into his embrace, and John seemed to understand. 

_I will always want you, too. I will want you until we are old and grey, and we have faded into the twilight of our lives. That’s all I want, and I can’t believe that I didn’t tell you before._  

After a long while, John finally broke the kiss, smiling crookedly. They watched each other for a long moment, silently, and Sherlock listened to John’s breathing.

“So, now that’s out of the way,” John said, chuckling, “What was it that you wanted to ask me?”  

Sherlock bit his lower lip, not sure how best to proceed. He had made the decision for both of them without asking John, and he would probably be peeved, at the very least. 

“Wow, it really must be serious.” John ran his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Alright, out with it.” 

“I wanted to ask you…” 

“Yes?”  

Hesitating, Sherlock decided to tell a half-truth, at least for now. “Will you go on holiday with me?”

John squinted at him, then burst out laughing. “On holiday? _That’s_ what all this was about? Of course I will, you daft bugger.” 

He kissed Sherlock again, still laughing lightly. Leaning back, he propped his head up on his hand. “Where are we going?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Sherlock said, avoiding his gaze. Mycroft’s men had swept the place for bugs, but he had no idea whether Moriarty had found another way to listen in. He wasn’t taking any chances. 

John raised an eyebrow. “Spiriting me off on a surprise holiday, eh? You’re not as bad at this as you think. When are we leaving?” 

“In the morning.” 

“Hmm, alright then.” Wincing slightly (his abdomen was obviously still a bit sore), John stood.  “We’d better get going.” 

“Why?” Sherlock swung his feet to the floor, sitting up. 

John pulled off his t-shirt as he walked back towards the bedroom. “Because I want a good long shag, and we still have to pack and get some sleep,” he called over his shoulder, tossing his shirt to the floor. Smirking, Sherlock stood and followed him, ignoring the renewed pinging from his phone.  

 

 

* * *

“Mycroft isn’t coming with us, is he?” John asked, frowning, as Sherlock shut the front door behind them.

“No. He insisted on providing us with transportation, however.” Sherlock strode over to the sleek black sedan, handing their cases to the chauffeur and opening the door for John.

John eyed him suspiciously as he got in. “What’s the other one for, then?” 

Sherlock took out his phone as they slid into motion. “Hmmm?” he said absently. 

“The other black car directly behind us. It’s exactly the same.” 

"Decoy vehicle." 

John narrowed his eyes, but Sherlock ignored him, taking a deep breath and opening the texts he had been ignoring. 

 

_There’s nothing you can do to stop this from happening, you know. Even asking your brother for help._

_The tenth doctor is my favourite. Well, let’s be honest, the Master is my favourite._

_You two are so adorable. I’m going to be sick._

_Really? Again? Johnny boy is quite insatiable._

_He might as well enjoy it while he still can._

_All’s fair in love and war, after all._  

_And I shouldn't need to remind you that this is war._

 

Fear knifed through Sherlock’s body and twisted in his stomach. He pocketed his phone without looking at the rest of the texts, turning to look out the window.

He had _heard_ them. He was listening to them when they had been on the couch, when they had been… 

Disgust rippled through Sherlock, but he pushed those thoughts out of his mind, for now.  

He skimmed his fingernails over his lips as he looked out the window. There was nothing more he could do, short of making both of them disappear permanently, which was out of the question. John would never be happy, always being on the run.  

“Hey,” John’s voice pierced through his reverie, and he felt John take his hand on the seat. 

With some effort, Sherlock refocused, bringing himself back to the present.

“I’m guessing you didn’t hear half of what I just said, did you?” 

Sherlock blinked at him. “You were talking?”

John rolled his eyes.  “Never mind.” He smiled which pulled Sherlock's gaze down to John's lips.

John smiled even wider. "You're doing it again," he said, moving closer.

"Doing what, exactly?" Sherlock asked softly.

"The face."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"The 'I want a kiss' face," John said, tilting his head upward. Just as their lips brushed, however, the car came to a halting stop. 

“Mr. Holmes, we have arrived,” the driver said. 

“Yes, I think we deduced that,” John said dryly. Sherlock snorted, opening the door and jumping out. 

As John got out behind him, his jaw dropped. Sensing his hesitation, Sherlock turned back. “Problem?” he quipped. 

“This is his idea of ‘providing transportation’?” John said weakly. 

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s the easiest way to get where we’re going.” _And also the most difficult to follow._  

Leaving their luggage to the chauffeur, he strode across the tarmac to the private jet.  

The stewardess-- a comely honey blonde in a smart navy uniform-- greeted them both at the door, smiling brightly. 

“Good morning, gentlemen. My name is Daphne. May I take your coats?” 

After relinquishing his Belstaff, Sherlock stowed his violin carefully before sitting in one of the plush cream leather chairs. 

As John plopped down next to him, Sherlock looked out the window, jiggling his foot slightly in impatience. 

He waved away the flight attendant when she asked if he wanted any refreshments, but John ordered a beer. 

“You might want to have something stronger, John,” Sherlock said. “You do hate flying, after all.” 

“How did you… never mind, of course you know that, ” John grumbled. “Scotch, please. Neat.” The flight attendant nodded, smiling again and retreating. She returned uncannily quickly with a tumbler full of the amber liquid. 

After an eternity, they finally took off. As Sherlock watched the tarmac disappear behind them, he breathed a sigh of relief, if a small one. His phone pinged again in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it.

“Will you tell me where we’re going now?” John asked. 

“Scotland,” Sherlock replied without altering his gaze. “Your choice of beverage was rather fitting.” 

“ _Scotland_? You told me to pack for _warm_ weather.” 

“Mycroft will provide everything you need,” Sherlock replied simply.

John was about to make another angry retort, but instead he flopped backward in his chair and taking a long drink.

Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He moved a hand over to John’s thigh, stroking it firmly and letting it rest on John’s knee. John glanced over at him questioningly, but Sherlock kept looking out the window. 

“Is there anything else you would require?” Daphne was in front of them again, taking John’s now-empty scotch glass and handing him another without prompting. 

“No, thanks,” John said, smiling at her warmly. “This scotch is excellent.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, about to take his hand away from John’s knee, but John clasped his free hand over it, holding it in place. 

Daphne flashed a bright smile again. It was just the tiniest bit too bright, even for a flight attendant.

“If you do, simply hit this call button here.” She pointed to a button above their heads. 

“Thank you,” John said again. 

There was something… not quite right about her. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and she caught his gaze. Instead of looking away, she lifted her chin, her mouth quirking upward slightly. John seemed to have noticed, and he looked back and forth between them.

“Erm… Sherlock?” John he asked. 

Sherlock let his eyes flick over her again-- _military training, high level, abandonment complex, bisexual, dog lover_ \-- until he relaxed. 

“One of Mycroft’s,” Sherlock replied. “You’re very good, I didn’t notice at first.” _I am rather distracted at the moment, however._

“Um, I thought that was kind of a given, considering we are on his jet and all,” John said cautiously.

Daphne’s posture changed slightly and she suddenly-- expertly-- became more subdued. She smiled again, but it was much more subtle this time. “I am the head of your security during this venture, Dr. Watson. Mycroft wanted me to introduce myself to you once we arrived, but apparently his brother notices even more than he gives him credit for. I will be at the lodge with you, but if all goes as planned, you will hardly notice I am even there.”

“Security?” John repeated hoarsely. “On holiday?” 

“I will fill you in on more details when we arrive. For now, enjoy the rest of our flight.” Daphne smiled her flight-attendant smile again before retreating to the back of the cabin and closing the door, giving them some privacy.

As soon as she was gone John grabbed him by the shoulder. “Sherlock, will you _please_ tell me what’s going on now? This obviously isn’t just a holiday. You’re doing a bang-up job with the no secrets rule.”

Sherlock exhaled, closing his eyes. “I’m taking you to a safe house. It’s an old hunting lodge that Mycroft outfitted to our purposes.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?"

Opening his eyes, Sherlock considered for a moment. “It has come to my attention that Moriarty has bugged our flat somehow, despite our best efforts to find the source. I couldn’t take any chances by telling you more information.”

John gaped at him. “Moriarty had… that means he… he _heard_ \--” He gulped, looking more furious than fearful.

“I’m afraid so,” Sherlock said quietly. 

Setting down his glass, John rubbed his eyes with both hands. “We’re never going to have any peace, are we?" 

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. “If all goes to plan, we will. Mycroft will catch Moriarty, and we can go back to Baker Street.”

John lowered his hands, looking extremely tired. “Mycroft… _oh._ That’s why you’re so sullen. You had to leave that part to Mycroft. It’s killing you that you’re not the one hunting Moriarty down, isn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, glancing downward. 

John’s jaw worked slightly. "I know you. You’ll be bouncing off the walls because you’re out of the action. You want to be in the heat of it, in the middle of the fighting--”  

“I _am_ fighting!” Sherlock said, raising his voice almost to the point of shouting.  _I’m fighting for you. I’m fighting for us. I’m fighting to keep us alive, the only way I know how._  

Daphne opened the door at the back of the plane, sticking her head in. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said, waving her away. The door clicked shut again.

John was still gaping at him. “I don’t understand.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “I won’t let you out of my sight, not until he’s no longer a threat.”  

John was still watching him carefully. “Oh,” he said softly.

“Oh?” Sherlock echoed, feeling irrationally irritated. 

John’s lips curled upward, slightly. “Oh.”

“You’re being extremely repetitive, you do realize that, don’t you?” Sherlock snapped.

“I never thought I would see the day, Mr. ‘I’m married to my work,’” John teased, trying to hold back a grin. “What… sentiment.” 

“Must you?” Sherlock said crossly, turning away. 

John reached over and jerked him back by the chin, leaning forward for a deep kiss. After a few moments Sherlock felt his body melting into John’s, the ire flooding out of him as quickly as it had come. John hitched his hip up against the arm rests, pulling Sherlock closer by twining his hands in his hair.

He pulled back, his eyes locking with Sherlock’s. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t… I thought you were keeping all of this from me because you were resentful. I keep forgetting that all you are trying to do is keep me-- us-- safe. But you could be a little less close-lipped about it all, you know.”

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, once. “I’ll… try.”

John smiled again. “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He pulled Sherlock towards him again, biting Sherlock’s lip lightly and pushing the kiss over the edge until Sherlock was grasping at him. He still wanted more, however, Glancing backward, Sherlock was satisfied that they were alone. He released John momentarily, unbuckling his seatbelt and kneeling in front of him.  

“Sherlock, what are you--”

“Shhh,” Sherlock said, running his hands up John’s thighs to his fly. 

“We can’t--" 

“If Daphne truly does work for my brother, she knows when to make herself scarce,” Sherlock whispered as he pulled John’s trousers down slightly.

“I _really_ don’t want to know what that’s referring to,” John muttered.

Sherlock leaned forward, tonguing John’s pants over his half-hard erection. John exhaled loudly, combing his hand through Sherlock’s hair. 

“It’s been far too long since I was able to do this,” Sherlock murmured as he pulled down John’s pants.

He didn’t waste any time, pulling John’s cock down into his throat. John’s hand clenched momentarily over Sherlock’s skull, but he let go almost immediately.

“God… sorry,” he gasped. 

Sherlock growled, because his mouth was occupied, pulling John’s hand down again. John shuddered, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Nodding, Sherlock pumped his fist down the base as he hollowed his cheeks and sucked the top of John’s cock. 

“Jesus _christ,_ Sherlock,” John moaned.  

Taking advantage of his boneless state, Sherlock pulled John’s body down further until he was slumped in the seat.

“What are you--”  

Sherlock grinned, releasing John’s cock long enough to suck two fingers into his mouth, before pulling John deep into his throat again. He massaged his finger down John’s perineum and over his hole.  

“Fuck,” John hissed, his hips tilting upwards to meet Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock grinned, pushing one in slowly and massaging it around, continuing to deep-throat John’s cock at the same time.  

“More,” John said hoarsely, and Sherlock growled again in agreement, pushing another finger in and forward. He hadn’t done this to John in a while, and he didn’t want to go too fast-- but John seemed to be accepting him readily. 

Sherlock moved his fingers farther in, slowly, until he brushed John’s prostate, and John squirmed downward. His face and neck were turning a lovely dark shade of pink, and his head was thrown back in blissful pleasure. Grinning, Sherlock took another long pull down John’s cock and brushed against his prostate again.

John was panting, his hips rocking forward. “Please,” he whispered, almost whining. Sherlock pressed his fingers forward again, pushing John over the edge. 

John bit his hand to stop himself from crying out, his head falling back against the headrest again as he went slightly boneless. Sherlock swallowed the bitterness, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he pulled John’s pants back up. 

Feeling slightly smug, he started to stand, but John caught his hand. “Where are you going?” John said breathlessly, his eyes half-closed. 

He tugged Sherlock downward until he could kiss him again, his lips moving slowly and satisfyingly against Sherlock’s.

“Your turn?” he asked, palming over Sherlock’s not-insubstantial erection.

Daphne's voice came over the intercom. "Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts, gentlemen. We will be landing shortly."

“No time,” Sherlock groaned, resting his forehead against John’s. 

“Later, then,” John promised, nipping Sherlock’s lip once more before releasing him. Sherlock wiped his hands on a napkin before returning to his seat, still feeling slightly uncomfortable. 

John was looking at him like he was something to eat, running his finger over his lips and grinning. 

“Stop smiling,” Sherlock said. “You’re being extremely obvious.”

“I think she’ll know what we’ve been doing anyway,” John said, giggling. 

Sherlock tried not to smile back, but John’s giggles were infectious. He hadn’t heard John laugh like that in a long time. 

John picked up a blanket from the seat across from them, tossing it to Sherlock. “Here. This should cover it, both literally and figuratively.”  

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he held the blanket over his lap nonetheless as they started their descent into the Scottish fog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plane they used to fly to Scotland is the same plane from His Last Vow. I decided to be particularly self-indulgent and have Sherlock and John fly away in it together.
> 
> I have good news and bad news. The good news is I have already written quite a bit of the next chapter, but the bad news is that you'll have to wait a bit for it. I want to write as far ahead as I can before I post more. It should be about this time next week.


	12. The Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannah and Erin are my heroes.
> 
> Hannah, you got your easter egg in this one, as you know :)

They landed in the small airport though the mist that was blanketing the hills in a thick, almost palpable gloom. The September weather was still temperate, though crisp. Sherlock scowled, pulling on his leather gloves as he walked down the short airplane stairway.

He had always detested it up here. It was dreary, secluded, and empty. There were few distractions, and hardly any murders. 

Daphne, who was now in pseudo-military garb, was speaking to several men with earpieces on the tarmac next to two dark Land Rovers. Catching his eye, she nodded grimly, and he nodded back as he got into the first car. He had a grudging respect for the petite blonde who was able to command all these men. There was a lot more to her than met the eye.

After their luggage was loaded into the boot, Daphne and the suited men got into the other car, and they started to ascend the hills to the north.

“Where the hell are we going?” John asked abruptly, watching out the window as the mountains came into full view.

“I told you. Hunting lodge,” Sherlock replied, frowning.

“Yes, you did say that. But you didn’t say that it was out in the arse-end of nowhere,” John muttered.

In good weather it took two hours to get to the manor from the airport, but it took them four. The mist was one factor, but what really slowed them down was the condition of the roads from a recent downpour. Additionally, much to John’s amusement (and Sherlock’s annoyance), their progress was halted for a good twenty minutes while a herd of sheep crossed the road.

Sherlock could barely contain his anxiety. They were exposed on the road, and it was taking far too long. Mycroft had taken all possible precautions to make sure that they weren’t followed, but that had never stopped Moriarty before.

“Just relax,” John said, grabbing one of Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock blinked, realizing he had been wringing his hands together.

“We’ll get there when we get there, eh?” John smiled at him.

Sherlock forced a smile.

As the midafternoon light started to fade, they drove around a large outcropping and Mulchinoch Manor came into view. The sprawling stone building was built in a slight semicircle, and there was a guest house to one side, where the security headquarters were no doubt stationed. The mostly-unused stables were set far back against a hill, and mountains beyond.

“Hunting lodge?” John choked out disbelievingly. “That’s a _hunting lodge_?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was owned by a Baron.”

“What do you consider to be a castle, then?”

“A castle.”

John snorted. “It’s very… Bronte-esque.”

“Please. _Wuthering Heights_ was set in the moorlands of Yorkshire.”

“Oh of course, how silly of me,” John said, smirking. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They came to a stop in the circular drive, where the butler was waiting to open the door.

“Greetings, sir.” He bowed as Sherlock stepped out. “Your rooms are prepared.”

“Branson,” he said, waving his hand in impatience as he grabbed his violin case. “There’s no need for all that bowing and scraping.”

“Dr. Watson.” Branson ignored Sherlock and bowed again as John emerged. “I will have your luggage brought up, gentlemen.”

“Er-- thanks,” John replied, bowing slightly as if he didn’t know whether he should do anything in return.

Sherlock strode towards the manor, and John followed at a quick clip. “ _Branson_?” he hissed to Sherlock. “Have you been here before?”

“To my everlasting boredom, yes, I have.” Another stony-faced man with an earpiece opened the door for them, nodding as they went past.

Sherlock stepped into the grand hall, which was just as dim and damp-smelling as always. There was a roaring peat fire in the salon to the left, and the walls were covered with ancient-looking tapestries.

He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the coat rack and starting towards the grand staircase. John was looking curiously at the suit of armour near the doorway, which had obviously been newly polished. “Come along, John,” he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock led him up the stairs to a long hallway, turning to the right without hesitation and opening the third door on the left. John walked in, stopping short only a yard from the threshold. Sherlock closed the door behind them, setting his violin down on a side table.

The room’s appointments were exactly as he remembered; a large tapestry depicting a unicorn surrounded by forest creatures hung over a king-sized four-poster bed, oriental rugs covered the walnut floor. The dark wood posts in each corner of the bed were carved to look like twisting vines, and heavy velvet curtains hung from the frame, tied in the corners.

Another peat fire was burning in the large stone fireplace on the other end of the room, and there were two dark green wing chairs, one on each side. The french doors across from the bed opened out onto a terrace, beyond which the mountains loomed in the gathering dusk.

“Wow,” John breathed. “This is… wow.”

Sherlock stepped forward to press himself against John’s back, slipping his arms around John’s shoulders and resting his nose in John’s hair.

He hadn’t realized how much tension he had been holding in his body the whole time they had been traveling. Now, as he held John tightly, he felt it starting to melt away.

“Hey.” John tried to turn around, but Sherlock only tightened his grip. “Sherlock… ow.”

Sherlock released him immediately, his eyes flying open. “Did I hurt you? I--”

John turned around, grinning. “No, it’s fine. I was just trying to get you to let go. You’re like a bloody octopus, you know that?” He slid his hands up Sherlock’s arms.

All the same, Sherlock ran his hands down John’s torso, as if the wound would somehow reappear.

“Hey, I’m fine, Sherlock,” John assured him, kissing him briefly. “So are you going to tell me why you’ve been here before?”

Satisfied that John wasn’t injured, Sherlock released him and wandered over to the window, pulling back the curtain slightly and looking out at the grounds.

“This manor was my great-grandfather’s.”

“Wait, you’re Scottish?”

“John, please,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Well you have some Scottish blood. I mean, you know my middle name, why did you never mention this? Are you a... a lord or something?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Hardly. My father was the only son of the 17th Baron Hailsham’s only daughter, so it should never have passed to us. It just so happens that the other bloodlines have died out.” 

“So your father is a Baron, then?”

“Henry was disinherited, actually, by his own choice. The Baronry is technically Mycroft’s, but he would never accept it and I will not either. The title will die with us, I assume.”

“That’s just…” John paused, and Sherlock could hear him starting to laugh.

Sherlock turned, letting the curtain fall. John was standing with one arm crossed over his stomach, and one hand covering his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock asked, slightly irked at his mirth.

“It’s just... it's always something with you. Turns out you’re a Scottish Baron. Or you could be. I shouldn’t even be surprised anymore.”

He kept laughing, his shoulders shaking slightly.

“It’s not _funny_.” Sherlock took his violin to the bed, opening the case to let it adjust to the temperature and humidity.

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, wandering over to the bathroom. “It’s really not even worth mentioning that your ancestors were Scottish royalty.”

“Well, technically, the first Baron was elevated from a commoner because of his prowess in battle.”

“Technicalities,” John’s voice echoed from the restroom. “Wow, this is a bit bigger than at home. Ah, there’s even a huge clawfoot bath.”

He reemerged, grinning. “I have a few ideas for how we can use that later.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting to unpack his clothing. 

John wandered over, his hands in his pockets. “So you came here, what, on holiday with your family?”

“When I was young, my great-aunt Mildred still had hopes that Mycroft or I would take up the mantle, so to speak. She would insist that we come here on holiday, to see our heritage.”

“I thought your father was estranged from that part of the family.”

“He was. He didn’t think it was his place to decide for us whether we wanted to be.” Sherlock shook out a shirt that would need to be ironed.

“I’ll bet coming here made you like it even less."

“Oddly enough, yes.”

“God, I can just imagine you as a teenager, sitting in this room and scowling at the tapestries. What did you do all day? I bet you drove the staff absolutely mad, trying to do experiments in their kitchens.”

“Something like that." Sherlock smirked as he flipped the case shut.

John pulled Sherlock forward by the hips, giving him a brief kiss. “I’m ravenous,” he said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Chuckling, John shook his head. “Not _that_ kind of ravenous. The I-could-eat-a-horse kind. Is there anything to eat around here?”

“There haven’t been horses stabled here year-round for dozens of years, but I think we can manage something.”

 

 

* * *

“Why did you let me eat so much?” John groaned, plopping down on the sofa and closing his eyes.

“I didn’t _let_ you do anything,” Sherlock sniffed, walking over to the wet bar and pouring them each a drink. “It was supper, and you were hungry.”

“That wasn’t _supper._ That was a bloody feast. Do they always make enough food for an army?” He clutched his stomach tenderly. “I think it was the venison stew that did me in…”

Sherlock walked back over to where he had collapsed on the sofa. “Digestif?” he said, holding out one glass. “It might help.”

John cracked one eye open and took it without sitting up. Sherlock chuckled, wandering over to stand in front of the fire as he sipped from his own glass.

Staring into the flames, he let his thoughts drift. In quiet moments such as these, anxiety sometimes crept back into his mind. He had made the right decision to stay with John rather than hunt Moriarty down, as much as he loathed inaction. The real question was whether he should tell Mycroft about the texts. They were threats, nothing more; a way to play with his mind. Psychological warfare always had been Moriarty's greatest weapon. 

After some time he heard John set down his glass, standing up with a soft grunt and walking over to Sherlock. He kissed the back of Sherlock's neck and slid his hands around his waist.

"You could roast an ox in that fireplace," John said with awe. “Or a stag.”

"I believe they used to."

John snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

Sherlock paused momentarily, covering one of John’s hands with his own. "Better?" he asked quietly.

"Mmm," John hummed, pressing his mouth into the spot where Sherlock’s throat met his shoulder. “Will you play something for me?”

Sherlock sighed. “I can’t. The wood has to adjust for a day or so to this climate.”

“Whatever shall we do instead, then?”

Sherlock chuckled, putting his glass down on the mantelpiece and turning around. “Well if it’s music you want, there’s another way to manage that.”

“Oh?”

Sherlock kissed John briefly and slid his hands away at the same time. Smiling at John’s confused expression, he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling tapestry next to the fireplace and pulled the tapestry aside, turning the small circular handle embedded in the wall. A mechanism revealed a hidden door which creaked on ancient hinges as it opened, revealing a priest's hole.

“What is that?” John said, peeking over his shoulder. “Is that a--”

“Yes. My great-uncle, the last true Baron Hailsham, had a fondness for music of ‘the modern style,’ as they called it then.”

He dusted off the front of the old jukebox, plugging it into a jack in the wall.

“Aha,” he said as it lit up. “It still functions, apparently.”

“Wow,” John breathed, looking at the songs. “This must be sixty years old.”

“Almost seventy,” Sherlock corrected. “Take your pick.”

“Hmmm. Ah, perfect.” John pushed a track number. The speakers crackled a bit before the lilting first notes of a song started to filter into the room.

 

_I’ll be seeing you_   
_in all the old familiar places_   
_that this heart of mine embraces…_

 

“Billie Holiday,” Sherlock mused.

“This was one of my mother’s favorite songs,” John said quietly, walking back to the fireplace and pressing both palms into the mantle. “It was my parents’ wedding song, the one they played for their first dance.”

Sherlock watched John’s face carefully, seeing regret, anger, sadness, and nostalgia flick across it. 

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said softly, not sure how John would react.

John smiled, shaking his head and looking back up at him. “It’s not your fault.”

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. “It wasn't my intention to cause you more pain.”

John watched him for a moment, contemplatively. “C’mere,” he said finally, straightening. Sherlock walked over and John took his hand, looking up at him.

“You know, you left the wedding so early that you never got to dance,” he said, brushing one of Sherlock’s curls away from his forehead. “I heard from a reliable source once that you love to dance.”

Sherlock exhaled, his chest tightening slightly. “There was only one person I wanted to dance with,” he murmured. “And I couldn’t have danced with him.” 

“Well we should remedy that, don’t you think?” John asked softly, standing up on his toes to kiss Sherlock. As they snogged lazily, contentedly, Sherlock moved his free hand up to rest on John’s shoulder.

John slid his hand around Sherlock’s waist. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock pressed his cheek against John’s.

They started dancing slowly. It was barely even a two-step, but it didn’t matter. They held each other tightly, letting the song wash over them. Sherlock could almost feel the loneliness and pain of the past falling away with every note of the melody. 

 

_...I’ll find you in the morning sun_   
_and when the night is new_   
_I’ll be looking at the moon_   
_but I’ll be seeing you…_

“I love you, you know,” John whispered into his ear.

“Does it need saying?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Yeah, I think it does, sometimes,” John replied, chuckling.

“Well then,” Sherlock said, leaning back slightly, “I love you, too.” He kissed John, pouring everything he felt into his caress and sliding his hand up into John's hair.

They continued to hold each other, circling slowly, long after the song had ended. Eventually the only sound was the crackling of the fire behind them and the whisper of the Scottish wind beyond the walls, but neither of them let go.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock woke to oppressive darkness, and at first he thought it was still night. It wouldn’t have been abnormal for him to awake after only a few hours, though recently it had become more routine for him to engage in post-coital lie-ins.

Realizing that the poster curtains were still drawn, he pulled one aside and squinted at the clock. It was half ten. Not sure if he believed that was possible, he swung his legs out of bed and walked over to the windows. He regretted it instantly, as the fire was banked and he was still arse naked. The room was particularly chilling after leaving the warm cocoon afforded by John’s warmth.

Sherlock peered through the window to see that rain was pelting down in sheets. That explained what he had mistaken for predawn gloom.

“Sher…?” he heard John mumble.

Padding quickly back towards the bed, he slipped back in. Still mostly asleep, John was lying on his stomach and reaching out towards the empty space Sherlock had left behind.

Catching John’s hand, Sherlock kissed John’s knuckles one at a time.

“Good morning," he said softly.

John smiled sleepily. “Morning. What time’s it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock replied, turning John’s hand over to press a kiss into his palm, then moving closer to curl himself around John. Though he had only experienced it a handful of times before, he loved it when John was like this in the morning; soft, pliant and warm.

John cracked his eyes open blearily. “It doesn’t?”

“We have nowhere to be. I had contemplated taking you on a tour of the grounds, but it’s raining.”

“A little rain never hurt anyone.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  “I had some other activities in mind.”

“Oh?” John propped himself up onto his elbow, yawning. “Well, what else do people do on sex holidays, anyway, other than have sex?” He chuckled, leaning inward to kiss Sherlock drowsily.

Sherlock blinked. _Sex holiday_. That’s what Sherlock had insisted on calling John and Mary’s honeymoon, much to John’s dismay. Objectively, this was a completely separate set of circumstances. 

“Whatever you’re thinking about, stop it. You’re killing the mood.” John pushed Sherlock over, straddling him and sliding his hips against Sherlock’s. Sherlock hissed out his breath.

“Not that I didn’t enjoy what we did last night,” John mumbled, kissing behind Sherlock’s ear, “but I think I want more of you this time.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Oh?”

John twisted his hips again, causing a bit of friction between their growing erections. “Do we have--”

“Bedside drawer,” Sherlock interrupted breathlessly.

“Aha, of course you came prepared.” John kissed down Sherlock’s torso before reaching over to the table quickly and pulling out the rather generous bottle of lube.

It had actually been there already, but Sherlock didn’t think that John particularly wanted to know that Mycroft’s attentions to their needs extended quite so far. If he was being completely honest, Sherlock didn’t particularly want to think about that either.

John was now working his way down to Sherlock’s hips, kissing his pelvis. Squeezing some lube into his palm at the same time, he started to stroke Sherlock’s cock.

“Shouldn’t… you be doing that to yourself?” Sherlock breathed.

“Nope,” John said succinctly, stroking Sherlock once more and letting him go. Sherlock’s cock bobbed along his belly, leaking slightly.

John poured some more lube onto his hand, leaning back so that he was parallel to Sherlock with his head at the foot of the bed, almost fully reclined.

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. “What are you--”

“Stay right there. You’re not allowed to move, and you’re not allowed to touch yourself, not until I say.” John’s stern tone sent a ripple of arousal through Sherlock’s whole body, and his dark blue eyes pinned him in place. “Clear?”

Sherlock nodded, watching with keen interest to see what John was going to do next.

Looking somewhat amused, John nodded back, closing his eyes and opening his legs slightly. He brushed his fingers down his torso, slicking them up his cock, slowly, once, twice. Biting his lip, he stroked up the inside of his thigh, moving down to skim under his balls and over his opening.

Planting his feet so that he had better access, he massaged over his hole in maddeningly slow circles. Finally, he pushed one finger in, massaging it around to work himself open.

Sherlock made a little noise of desperation, which John obviously heard, because he smiled. He pressed inward a few times, loosening himself, before retracting his finger and adding another. His lips parted slightly as he started breathing more heavily, and his hips undulated upward slightly to meet his fingers.

“John,” Sherlock panted, his voice sounding strangled.

John opened his eyes, biting his lip as he met Sherlock’s gaze. His pupils were blown wide and dark as his fingers slid in and out of his body. 

Sherlock clenched his hands into the sheets on each side of himself, aching with the desire to touch himself or John. It was excruciating.

John was fucking himself with his fingers harder now. When he brushed against his prostate, a visible ripple of pleasure echoed through his whole body. Sherlock’s fists clenched harder into the bedclothes.

“Don’t… move,” John breathed, his hips moving to meet his fingers as he added another, and he started making little moans that went straight to Sherlock’s cock.

“John," Sherlock said hoarsely, as he continued to watch John’s fingers slide into his body.

“Stay still." John's other hand wandered up to his cock to stroke it once. He groaned in pleasure, closing his eyes briefly before looking at Sherlock again.

Sherlock lost control, reaching towards his cock.

“No,” John snapped, and Sherlock dropped his hand. His chest was heaving and he was starting to feel dizzy-- from all the blood rushing to one particular spot, no doubt.

John shook his head. “I’ll tie you down if I have to.”

Sherlock felt his eyes go even wider. He had broken out in a sweat and he hadn’t even moved a muscle.

John’s eyes fluttered closed again as his hips moved higher, chasing that specific angle again. He let out a soft moan,  running his thumb over the head of his cock.

It was absolute torture. And John knew it.

John let go of his cock, pressing his hips into his fingers, as he opened his eyes again.

“What do you want?” he breathed.

Sherlock made a strangled noise in the back of his throat.

“Tell… me,” John panted.

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes trailing down the light soft fuzz on John’s chest, down to the slightly darker hair near his cock, to the fingers sliding in and out of his body.

“I want to pull those fingers out of you and suck you off,” Sherlock choked out.

“And?” John’s chest was starting to flush, but his eyes never left Sherlock’s face.

“I want to bend you over the bed and fuck you into the mattress. I want to own you and I want you to own me… I want… I want...” he stuttered.  _  
_

Apparently taking pity on him, John pulled his fingers from himself and moved over to Sherlock.

“This is mine,” John said, stroking Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock’s head fell backward in relief, stars bursting in his vision. “Isn’t it, love.”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock managed to choke out. _Every part of me, everything, it’s all yours. It’s always been yours._

John stroked him again, hard and slow, and Sherlock exhaled deeply. Bending down, John kissed the top of Sherlock’s cock, sucking on the head slightly until Sherlock whimpered.

With a smug expression, John moved up to straddle Sherlock, holding his cock as he sank down onto it slowly.

“Oh, god yes,” John breathed, rolling his head around slightly to loosen the tension before sinking all the way down. Sherlock gasped as he felt John’s body accepting him, the exquisite heat of their joining overwhelming him.

John made a little moan of pleasure, throwing his head back slightly. He started undulating his hips, riding Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock squirmed, starting to push upward.

“No,” John gasped, “Don’t move.”

Sherlock made a noise of exasperation, trembling slightly with the effort but managing not to move. There was a thin sheen of sweat glistening on John’s chest as he ground his hips downward. 

“God, Sherlock,” John breathed, reaching down to stroke himself in time to his hip movements. He tilted himself forward slightly, finding an angle he liked and thrusting downward harder. Sherlock leaned forward slightly to kiss him, and John moaned into his mouth as he found the perfect spot.

“John,” Sherlock begged.

“Okay,” John panted, “Now.”

Wasting no time, Sherlock grasped him by the hips and planted his feet on the bed so that he could push upward. John moaned again, holding himself in place and biting his lip as Sherlock fucked him harder.

Now was his chance. Sherlock flipped them over, managing not to slip out, and he was able to start thrusting into John with reckless abandon.

Supporting himself against the headboard with one hand, John pulled Sherlock down by the curls to kiss him ravenously. He wrapped his legs around Sherlock and started making those small noises that he only made when he was about to fall over the edge to oblivion.

Sherlock thrust in faster, harder, and John’s hand slid down to Sherlock’s hips to pull him even closer. Sherlock could feel him getting close, so he reached down and stroked him with his free hand.

“Sherlock,” John yelled as he spilled over onto his stomach and went boneless. Sherlock held him as he rode the aftershocks of his orgasm, thrusting until he came himself.

Collapsing onto John’s chest, he fought for breath. His vision was swimming and he wasn’t sure if he had ever climaxed so hard before.

It was a few moments before he realized that John was still trembling beneath him and he lifted his head, narrowing his eyes. John was lying with his eyes closed, his hand threaded through Sherlock’s hair.

“John?” Sherlock asked, pulling out and moving to John’s side. John didn't move, and his breath was still erratic.

“John,” Sherlock prompted again.

John cracked his eyes open, looking at Sherlock blearily.

Sherlock leaned in to kiss him. “Are you alright?” he asked carefully.

“Of course I am.” John mumbled. “Won’t you let me bask in the aftermath of that amazing orgasm you just gave me for a bit?”

Sherlock curled himself around John’s body, his head resting on John’s chest. “You mean the one you almost didn’t let me participate in?”

John snorted. “Would you really have just sat there and watched me come without touching yourself? Just because I told you to?”

Sherlock considered for a moment. “Yes, I think I would have. It would have been difficult, I grant you, but...” he faltered.

“You like it when I take control.”

Sherlock paused. “Yes, Captain.”

John chuckled, kissing Sherlock on the nose. They drifted for a few minutes, still plastered to each other, as their breathing slowed.

“What’s for breakfast around here?” John mumbled eventually. 

“Porritch,” Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose.

“Hey,” John said, poking Sherlock’s side. “Don’t insult the food of our ancestors.”

Sherlock snorted. “I truly hope you are not including me in that statement.”

Sherlock’s phone pinged and he tensed involuntarily. He had been ignoring it for the past day and a half.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay, really, why does Mycroft keep texting you?”

Sherlock shook his head, getting out of bed and walking towards the bathroom. He grabbed his phone as he passed. “Mind if I take the first shower?” he called out.

He turned on the faucets and sat on the side of the tub.

“Only if you don’t use up the hot water,” John called back.

Sherlock didn’t answer, clicking to the text messages, all from an unknown number.

 

_Leaving won’t save you._

_I hope you enjoy your ‘holiday,’ such as it is._

_A safe house is only as safe as its guards. And guards are people, as corruptible as anyone else._

_I will find you. That’s a promise._

 

A chill ran through his body. Moriarty knew that they were in a safehouse, though that wasn’t surprising. The real question was whether he knew where.

Sherlock put down the phone and stepped into the shower, letting the water beat down on his shoulders and gritting his teeth. They were safe for now, but who knew how long it would last. So many factors were out of his control. Before John, he had lived for the thrill, the high of not knowing whether he would survive. He’d had nothing to lose, then.

Now, though, he had everything to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Mulchinoch Manor and the Baronry of Hailsham are completely my fabrication. I did some research into similar types of hunting lodges in the mountains of Scotland, and I did my best with topography in that region. Not having been to the Scottish highlands before, however, I had to use my imagination quite a bit. Please forgive me if there are any glaring errors in that regard.
> 
> 2\. “Branson” is a reference to one of my favorite characters in Downton Abbey. 
> 
> 3\. The song Sherlock and John danced to, Billie Holiday’s “I’ll be seeing you,” was first performed during the WWII era. The woman sings of seeing the loved one she had lost in their “favorite places” after he had died, presumably during the war. Ironically it’s considered to be a romantic song, when it’s actually about loss. You can listen to the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDlKb2cBAqU


	13. The Deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, oodles of kisses to Erin and Hannah.

The rain continued for days on end, and Sherlock was clinically aware that he should feel bored, even claustrophobic. He would have been, had he been here alone. There were many days in his youth when he felt trapped in the manor, almost unable to breathe from the oppressive boredom. Now, though, he was most definitely  _not_ bored. 

Sitting in one of the wing backed chairs next to the fire, he pretended to read a tome on Apiology which he had found in the library. Every once in a while he would sneak a glance at John, who was typing extremely slowly with two fingers as he was wont to do, his brow furrowed with concentration. He had told Sherlock that the project was a “surprise,” but Sherlock had deduced it within minutes, of course. He was turning his blog into a book, which he planned on dedicating to Sherlock. Sentimental. 

As he watched John type, a feeling of warmth slowly bloomed in his chest. It was a phenomenon he had noticed more and more often of late, simply from watching John do the most mundane tasks. 

John made a noise of frustration, snapping his laptop shut, and Sherlock quickly refocused his eyes on the same paragraph he had been reading twenty minutes earlier.  

“Isn’t there anything else to do around here?” John groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.  

“I thought you were occupied with the _surprise_.”

“There’s only so much typing I can do before my hands seize up.” John got up and wandered over to the window, scowling as he looked out. “Why did we come to Scotland again?”

“It's safer.” 

“Couldn’t Mycroft have made a safe house in, I don’t know, the French Riviera?” 

“We could always go hunting.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, smirking.

John snorted. Sherlock pressed his lips together, watching him for a moment, before closing his book. “I have an idea.”

“Oh?” John said curiously, turning around. 

Sherlock beckoned him, walking out into the hallway and turning towards the east wing.

“What are we--?” John began to ask, but Sherlock pressed his finger to his lips, pointing to one of the many cameras in the hallway. 

John looked confused, but continued to follow him down the hallway. They finally reached the far end where the library opened in front of them, but Sherlock turned to the door on the right. 

As Sherlock opened it, John peeked in. “A storeroom?” he said incredulously. “What, you want to shag in there? There are more comfortable ways to shake things up, you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just go in.”

John looked at him searchingly for a moment, then went in, and Sherlock glanced down the hallway before following him and shutting the door. He had already checked to make sure there were no cameras in the room when John had been taking a kip one day.

“Okay, what is it?” John asked as Sherlock turned on the light. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow mischievously, walking to the back of the room to a heavy cedar chest. 

“Help me move this,” he said, and John helped him pull it away from the wall to reveal the stones in the floor. Squatting down, Sherlock felt around the edges, one after another, trying to find the loose one. 

“Sherlock, can you at least tell me what we’re doing?”

“When I was in my early teens, I was curious as to why the jukebox was in a hidden alcove. According to Aunt Mildred, there were several hidden rooms and passages in this manor, most of them long forgotten. They weren’t on the building’s schematics, and I made it my mission one summer to find them all.” 

He felt one stone in particular move, so he pulled it up. “Using the blueprints, I found places where there should be a room or some kind of foundation, but there wasn’t. No one else knew about this one; I didn’t even tell Mycroft. It aggravated Aunt Mildred to no end that she had no idea how I would sneak out in the middle of the night.” 

“Wow,” John said, as he helped Sherlock move the stone. “Where does it go?”

“To a cave in the hills.”

John peered down into the passage, which was little more than a couple of meters wide, with keen interest.“Can we go down there?” 

Sherlock nodded. “We shouldn’t go all the way, but I’ll show you something you may find intriguing. Grab that torch.”

He lowered himself down and John dropped down after him. As they set off down the dank tunnel, Sherlock was reminded forcibly of when they had explored the tunnels of the underground, looking for the train with the bomb beneath Parliament. It was a little less than a year ago, but it felt like eons. 

He glanced over at John, whose eyes were alight with interest as he held up the torch. Sherlock had always maintained that his mind rebelled at stagnation, but in truth John was the same; he had felt caged and bored after a month of “wedded bliss,” and he loathed inaction. He craved danger, the thrill of the chase.

After half an hour of walking, they reached a small door in the wall. Sherlock shouldered it open with some difficulty, revealing a small roughly-hewn room. There was a small light from a cut out hole above, illuminating the circular space. An old pallet, long disused, was in the far corner, and some other odds and ends were scattered around. 

“What is this place?” John said in awe.  

Sherlock shrugged. “I have theories, but nothing concrete. After the defeat in the Scottish rebellion of the 1740s, the Baron-- who had maintained political neutrality, officially-- helped fugitives flee, and I believe he may have hid them here. It’s possible even Charles himself was here for a time.”

John had wandered over to a stack of books and was dusting off the bindings. Among tomes of organic chemistry was _Robinson Crusoe_ and _Treasure Island._  “Okay, there’s no way that this is from the 1700s. It was printed in the 1950s.” 

Sherlock walked over and plucked it out of John's hands. “Of course not. I brought it here.” 

“You did?” 

“Yes, I would abscond with books from the library quite often, actually. I apparently left some of them here. That must have driven Branson mad." 

“You liked books about pirates, I see.” 

Sherlock smirked. “Yes. I even--” he halted, stopping himself from what he was about to say next.

He felt his smile falter and fade, as he remembered what Mycroft had said over the phone at the wedding. 

 _Don’t get involved,_ Mycroft had warned. He might as well have said, _Don’t love again. You know what happened last time. You almost broke into pieces, and that was only a dog._  

Seeing John’s confused expression, he shook his head. “Reading was a means though which I could leave this world and escape to another. Eventually, I discovered drugs, and that became my escape.” 

John blinked, looking over at the pallet with a tinge of sadness and rubbing the back of his neck. 

Sherlock frowned. “John?”  


“It’s just… I can’t imagine you being so lonely as a child. I’ve pieced things together from what little you’ve told me and…”  

“There’s no need to pity me, John,” Sherlock said without aggression, starting to turn away. John caught his hand. 

“I don’t pity you. I wish I had known you then, that’s all. When you were… ” He shook his head. “This isn’t coming out right.” 

He dropped Sherlock’s hand, turning around and putting his hands on his hips.

“At the wedding... you said that I saved you,” John said, after a long pause. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, unsure how to respond, because John hardly ever talked about the wedding. Neither of them had ever admitted it, but Sherlock's speech had essentially been little more than a love letter to John. 

“You did,” he said slowly. “I meant it.”

John turned around, his forehead furrowed. “I just wish that you hadn’t needed saving. You asked me once why I cared what other people thought of you. It’s because I didn’t want you to be alone. I wanted people to see you for who you really are.”

“I wasn’t alone. I’m not alone.” 

John shook his head, walking back over to Sherlock and taking his hands. “You’re the bravest, kindest, and wisest man I have ever met, too. I wish everyone else could see that.” 

“It doesn’t matter to me what people think, John. Surely you understand that by now.” 

“I know. It’s just… thinking about what led you to seek escape, to seek the drugs…” he shook his head again. “You saved me too, you know. I couldn’t say it, not then. But I’m saying it now.” 

Sherlock felt as though there were some kind of knot in his throat. “I know,” he said.

 

 

* * *

Days turned into a week, then two weeks. Sherlock avoided his phone, and the rain continued mercilessly. They made love, and Sherlock played his violin; they read books and listened to the jukebox. Sherlock was certain he would never get the smell of peat out of his hair. Everything seemed to take on a strange, eerie quality, and the days melded into each other indistinguishably.

Finally, after eighteen days, Sherlock couldn’t stand the radio silence anymore. While John was in the shower, he took out his phone and thumbed a number with distaste. 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said dryly after the first ring.

“Why haven’t you caught him yet?”

“I see that John's continued influence has not tempered your rudeness,” Mycroft said, long-suffering. "Pity."

Sherlock scowled at the phone, refusing to justify the comment with a response.

Mycroft sighed. “There’s nothing.” 

“What do you mean, _nothing_?” 

“I mean that there’s no indication that he is alive, none whatsoever.We have seen no criminal activity similar to Moriarty’s before he died. No indication of anyone speaking the name Moriarty in the past three years in the chatter. No attempts to resurrect the criminal network you dismantled. For all intents and purposes, the man you knew as James Moriarty is dead.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “But he _is_ alive.” 

“And how do you know that for certain? Because of something the illustrious Mary Watson said before she shot John and then killed herself? You were in a haze of withdrawal, little brother. You may not have been thinking clearly.” 

Sherlock bit back a retort. Moriarty hadn’t specifically told him not to tell Mycroft about the texts, but he wanted to err on the side of caution. He had already attempted to track the phone number several times, but it was too heavily encrypted, and Mycroft’s men wouldn’t be able to track it, either.

“I just know,” Sherlock said slowly.

“You ‘just know’?”

Sighing, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you about the camellias.”

Mycroft paused. “That is his style of drama, I will grant you.”

“It wasn’t only that, it was the note. Only Moriarty, John and I were present for that conversation.”

“And half a dozen snipers, if I recall correctly. He's dead, brother mine. You saw it occur with your own eyes, did you not?"

“Need I remind you that you also helped me fake my own death, rather convincingly I might add? You never found a body on the roof, either.” 

Mycroft paused again, his silence laden with annoyance. “Remember Redbeard, Sherlock,” he said quietly, changing the subject again.

“That was different,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

“I’m only suggesting that your judgment may be clouded.”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with one hand. “Are you actually implying that I have fabricated Moriarty’s return just because I love John?”

There was a sharp exhale on the other side of the line. Sherlock realized instantly that he had never actually admitted to his brother that he loved John. At least, not in so many words. 

Sherlock lifted his chin, though Mycroft couldn’t see it.

“I will keep you apprised of any change in the situation, little brother,” Mycroft said tersely, and there was a dial tone.

Sherlock made a noise of exasperation and hung up, looking out the window. His phone buzzed in his hand, and without thinking he looked down. 

 _Unknown number: Mycroft still doesn’t believe that I’m alive, I see._  

Sherlock felt his blood curdling. Moriarty could hear their conversation? _How?_

He could hear the shower switch off, so he pocketed his phone as John emerged. 

“Who was that you were talking to?” 

“Mycroft.”

“Any word on Moriarty?” John walked over to the chest of drawers, where a range of jeans and jumpers had been provided for him.  

Sherlock watched as droplets of water dripped from the hair at the back of John's neck, and his eyes wandered down to the scars on his torso and shoulder. 

“Not yet.”

 

 

* * *

More days passed. His phone remained stubbornly silent, except for text alerts he didn’t read.  

After supper one evening, as had become their routine, they retired to the salon. Sherlock quickly found himself bored with the book he had been reading on infectious diseases, so he took out his violin in front of the massive fireplace. 

“Any requests?” he said, rosining his bow and inspecting the hairs. 

“Anything,” John said, closing his book and yawning. 

Sherlock smiled, lifting the violin to his neck and tuning it. Once he was satisfied, he started playing one of John’s favorites, "Swan Lake." He didn’t mind playing Tchaikovsky, as long as it was for John. 

Closing his eyes, he let the music flow through his body and out through his fingers. He could feel John watching him, which was like a soothing balm.

When the piece was finished, Sherlock opened his eyes. He didn’t lower his violin as John clapped, smiling.

After a moment, Sherlock shifted his fingers, pulling the bow to shape a new melody. 

John immediately froze. Sherlock kept his eyes on John, watching his reactions; he didn’t seem angry or upset. 

As Sherlock continued to play, John stood, slowly crossing the room.  

Careful not to interrupt Sherlock’s playing, John slid his hands around Sherlock's waist from behind.Sherlock closed his eyes; he could feel John’s breath as he leaned in to kiss the back of his neck. 

“It’s our song,” John whispered, pulling Sherlock’s collar aside to leave more open mouthed kisses on the free side of his throat. Sherlock fought to keep his fingers on the right strings. 

“It’s _your_ song,” Sherlock corrected. 

“Let’s make it ours,” John said between kisses, sliding his hands down to brush against Sherlock’s fly. Sherlock's fingers slipped slightly.

“Don’t stop playing,” John said, chuckling. Sherlock obeyed, his heartbeat slightly elevated.  

“You’re not still angry?”

“What, that you played this at the wedding?” John untucked Sherlock’s shirt, running his fingertips along Sherlock’s skin. 

Sherlock closed his eyes again, but didn’t stop playing. “Yes.” 

“You just made it even more clear that I was making the wrong choice.” He kissed the spot behind Sherlock’s ear. 

“It’s very difficult to maintain sufficient musicianship when you’re doing that,” Sherlock breathed. 

John’s hands halted their movements. “Should I stop, then?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly.

John slipped around, kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock. “Well then, keep playing.” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he felt John pull down the zipper of his fly, pushing his pants down enough that he had access to Sherlock’s cock. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice even.

“I should think it’s rather obvious,” John quipped in an affectation of Sherlock’s tone.  

“Branson--” 

“You know he never bothers us in here. Now shush.”

Closing his eyes and attempting to compose himself, Sherlock kept playing. The melody morphed into something new, something that wasn’t in the original composition. 

It was now the feeling of John’s lips. It was the press of John’s fingers into his hips, keeping him in place; the warm, wet heat of John’s mouth and the glinting of his hair as his head moved. The music crescendoed under his fingertips until it had run away from him, taking on a life of its own.  

He might have missed a few notes towards the end, but John didn’t seem to mind. He was otherwise occupied.

 

 

* * *

A month had come and gone. They were both starting to chafe under what John had once called “house arrest,” which wasn’t far from the truth.

One day, Sherlock let himself sink into a particularly black mood, not moving from the chair next to their fireplace for hours on end. John had tried to snap him out of it all morning, but even sex disinterested Sherlock for the first time since they had been together. At last John had said something Sherlock hadn’t paid attention to before leaving the room. 

For what seemed like the hundredth time, his phone buzzed. Scowling, Sherlock stood and grabbed it from the mantle. There were dozens of unread texts from the same unknown number, and in a moment of weakness, he clicked to read them.  

 

 _I will never stop looking for you, you know._  

_John can’t live in safehouses the rest of his life._

_He’ll go insane._

_He needs to be out in the world, you know he does._

_He’ll grow to resent you, hate you even._  

_He may leave you._

_Maybe I should just let that happen after all. He’ll do my work for me._

_It will definitely be fun to watch._  

_I’m just tickled thinking about it._

 

Sherlock glared at the screen as if it had personally insulted him. Finally, he skipped over the rest of the texts and typed a response, his hands flying over the keys. 

 

_What exactly do you want? -SH_

 

He put the phone down, but he didn’t have to wait long; it pinged almost immediately. Sherlock stared at it for a moment before slowly picking it up and reading the text.

 

_Ah, finally giving up on the silent treatment, I see. As to what I want, I should think that’s rather obvious._

 

Sherlock frowned. 

 

 _You’re never getting John. -SH_  

 _He’s not who I want. He’s a means to an end._  

_What must I do? -SH_

_I’ll give you coordinates. Come alone._

 

Sherlock paused, drumming his fingertips over his lips.

 

_If I accept, will you leave John in peace? -SH_

_Cross my black heart and hope to die._  

 

Sherlock exhaled deeply, glancing at the door before he typed a response.

 

 _And if I refuse? -SH_  

_I will never stop hunting him. I will crush him slowly, ripping him apart piece by piece._

_You know I can, even if you hide him for the rest of his life. There’s more than one way to skin a cat._

 

Sherlock didn’t respond; he just stared at the screen until another text popped up.

 

_If you try to trick me again, I’ll know. If you tell your brother, I’ll know. If you fake your death again, or try to escape, I’ll kill John._

_That’s a promise._

 

Sherlock could hear his heart pounding in his ears. 

 

_Will you give me time to consider? -SH_

 

A full minute passed before his phone pinged again.

 

_You have one day._

 

Sherlock dropped his phone and stared emptily at the coals of the fire in front of him. There had to be another choice. He had an entire day to think this through. 

“Oy, can I have some help?” John called out. 

Sherlock remained immobile, his fingers steepled over his lips. 

“Hey,” John said beside him, sounding piqued. “Didn’t you hear me?” He put the large pail of peat next to the fire and collapsed in the other chair.

“Branson can do that,” Sherlock said tersely.

“I know, but I don’t want him to. It’s odd enough having a servant do most things for me."

Sherlock stood, striding over to grab his coat and shrugging it on. 

“Sherlock?” John sprang up, looking concerned. “What-- Sherlock, talk to me.”

“You could see I was thinking, why can you never just be _quiet_?” Sherlock snapped, walking quickly out of the room. He flew down the stairs, ignoring John’s entreaties.

He opened the front door and strode out without looking back. 

“Mr. Holmes?” One of the armed guards called after him.

“Just going for a walk on the grounds,” Sherlock said over his shoulder. “Won’t be long.”

“Ms. Magpie said someone must accompany you at all times. Mr. Holmes! Please, wait!” 

Turning his coat collar up against the wind and rain, Sherlock pretended not to hear him. He didn’t care that he was getting soaked, that the sun was going down, or that it was freezing. He couldn’t be near John when he made this decision. 

Sherlock walked until his toes felt numb, the wind howling around him. He couldn’t fake his death this time, especially not if Moriarty chose the venue. He couldn’t tell Mycroft, because Moriarty would know-- somehow, he’d heard their conversations. 

They could wait it out, but for how long? Two years? Four? Staying here, or moving from one safe house to another? Moriarty’s voice entered his head unbidden: _He would come to hate you for it._

The idea put Sherlock’s stomach in knots. 

He walked endlessly, running over every possibility in his mind endlessly. A pain started to lodge itself in his chest, like shards of glass caught in his lungs. 

There was nothing. There was no other answer.

 

 

* * *

Long after dark, Sherlock walked back into the entryway, dripping onto the expensive oriental carpet. He stood there for a moment, not entirely sure what to do. It felt as though the walls of his mind palace were slowly starting to crumble around him.

“Sherlock?” John called, striding in from the living room with Daphne in tow. 

“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock. What the _hell_ were you thinking?” John hugged him, despite the fact that he was soaking wet.“Jesus, do you know how much you scared me? You were gone for eight hours.” John clutched him tightly, all anger apparently gone in his relief.

“I told him you would be fine. I’ll leave you two alone,” Daphne said, smiling and striding out. 

John pulled back, his eyes pools of concern. “Jesus, you’re shaking. Come on, I’ll run you a bath.”  

Sherlock hadn’t realized it until then, but his whole body was trembling. He doubted that it was only due to the cold. 

John sat him down on the chaise in the bathroom as he turned on the faucets. Sherlock didn’t move, but his eyes remained fixed on John, unable to fathom how he was going to leave him. 

John started stripping his wet clothes off, and Sherlock's teeth started chattering. 

“God, you’re absolutely freezing,” John muttered angrily. He pulled Sherlock up and helped him into the bath, which felt scalding against his chilled skin.

“I’m going to ring Branson for some tea,” John said, testing the water with his fingertips and turning off the taps.  

“John,” Sherlock said, sitting up suddenly. “Don't leave. Please." 

John frowned. “Oh, let me get this straight. You snap at me for no apparent reason, stalk off angrily without telling me where you’re going, or how long you’ll be gone, scare me half to death… and now you don’t want to let me out of your sight?” 

Sherlock swallowed, nodding slightly. He didn’t trust himself to say anything at the moment.

Sighing, John walked back over to the tub, and Sherlock reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugging him slightly. 

“Get in,” he croaked.  

John didn' t move, so Sherlock tugged him again. Rolling his eyes, John shrugged off his clothes and got in the tub, sitting in front of Sherlock. Sherlock wasted no time wrapping his limbs around him, having a sudden and irrational desire to latch onto John.

“I’m still mad at you,” John mumbled.

“I know.” 

“You’re not going to explain what that was all about, are you?”

Sherlock rested his nose in John’s hair, inhaling that inherent John-ness that he seemed to be addicted to. “I can’t.” 

“I figured.” 

Sherlock opened his eyes. John thought this was just another one of his moods, a cerebral malfunction of the kind that made him go taciturn for days on end. 

It was best to let him think that. Telling John anything would only make things harder.

Sherlock kissed John's throat, letting his hands slip down to John’s cock and stroking it once. John sighed, leaning back slightly, which allowed Sherlock to kiss under his jaw.

“I can tell when you're trying to distract me, remember?” John said. 

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, stroking him again. 

To his surprise, John trapped his hands. “You promised.” He turned around so that he could see Sherlock. “You promised not to disappear again." 

“I didn’t,” Sherlock said softly. _Not forever. Not yet._

John swallowed, looking down. “How would I have known? “

Sherlock hated seeing John in pain like this. He tried not to think about how much worse it would be after he left. 

He couldn’t say anything-- because it would be a lie-- so instead he cupped John’s face and dipped down to kiss him. John didn’t respond at first, so Sherlock sucked on his bottom lip until John’s lips parted. Sherlock licked into his mouth eagerly, the pain in his chest expanding instead of shrinking.

Giving in, John maneuvered so that he was straddling Sherlock in the bathtub, grabbing his curls with both hands and kissing him ravenously.

John reached down and wrapped one hand around both their cocks, sliding his hips up slowly.

“John." 

“Mmm.” 

“I need you, John,” Sherlock gasped between kisses. “I need you.”

“I’m right here,” John said soothingly, continuing to thrust his hips upward.

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. “More.” He needed John to possess him, he needed to be a part of John and for John to be a part of him, at least one last time. 

John chuckled, unaware of Sherlock’s inner turmoil. “Okay.”

Nipping Sherlock’s lip playfully, he stood to get out of the tub, throwing a towel to Sherlock and wrapping one around himself. “Come on, then,” John said, padding out into their room. 

Sherlock gulped, getting out and wrapping himself in the towel as he walked out. 

John was lying back on his elbows on the large flannel blanket, which was stretched out in front of the fireplace. The firelight illuminated his body, touching his hair and skin with gold.  

“It’s warmer over here,” John said, smiling.  

Sherlock froze, taking in the sight, unable to believe that this might be the last time he would see John like this. John raised an eyebrow, so he made himself move, discarding the towel as he walked. Smiling, John quickly pulled him down to kiss him again. 

Lying with his body stretched out against John’s, Sherlock felt the bliss of happiness and the sting of loss warring for control of his mind. He would never forget this, not even in his dying moment-- not even if Moriarty tortured him and made him wish he were dead. The feeling of John’s hot skin against his own and the soft noises he made would carry him through.

John rolled them over so that he was on top without breaking the kiss. He rocked his hips against Sherlock, and Sherlock clutched at him, his fingertips sinking into the small of John’s back. He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t. 

_It’s for John. You can do this for him. You had to let him go once before._

Sherlock whimpered, which John took for encouragement, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s again.

“God, I love you,” John whispered, flicking one of Sherlock’s curls out of the way so that he could kiss Sherlock’s forehead. He reached over for the lube which he had left on the edge of the blanket, and Sherlock wordlessly hitched his legs around John’s hips.

John squeezed some lube onto his hand and slicked himself quickly. He reached down, massaging a finger into Sherlock and leaning down to kiss him at the same time. 

At this point, Sherlock needed hardly any preparation, and after only a couple of minutes John hitched one of Sherlock’s legs over his good shoulder and pressed into him. 

Sherlock exhaled, pulling John in by the hips. He needed this, he needed John. He would have only memories soon, but just for now he wanted to be John’s and for John to be his.

“Shh,” John said, leaning in to kiss him as he started thrusting. “It’s alright, love.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Sherlock wrapped his arms and legs around John, holding him as tightly as possible. He didn’t care about the tears falling down his cheeks, the sounds he was emitting. Nothing but this, in his entire life, had ever been worth what he was about to do. 

_John John John John John John…_

“I’m here, love,” John gasped, thrusting into Sherlock harder. “I’m here, come for me.”

_No. I don’t want this to end. Please._

John reached down to stroke Sherlock’s cock once and Sherlock cried out, spilling over.  

John continued thrusting until he came, and Sherlock held him tightly, kissing all over his face. He couldn't let go.  

 

 

* * *

After John had finally drifted off, Sherlock swung out of bed and picked up his phone from where he had discarded it the night before. He opened a new text, typing quickly and hitting send.

_Coordinates? -SH_

The answer arrived almost instantly.

_Good boy. I knew you would come round._

Sherlock glanced over at John. The phone buzzed again, but Sherlock didn't look at the new text. Placing the phone on the bedside table, he lay down next to John again and wrapped himself around him carefully. 

 

 

* * *

In the grey light of dawn, Sherlock rose, extricating himself carefully from John’s grasp. He dressed slowly but deliberately, as he imagined a man would do on the day of his execution.

Finally there was nothing left to do. He left a note and his violin on the bedside table and sat down next to John, careful not to wake him. 

He was still sound asleep, and he would be for a good while yet. Sherlock looked at his relaxed face, committing every line to memory one final time. His mind flashed back to that first morning after the stag night-- when he had realized how deeply in love with this man he was. He had been terrified of it, and terrified of losing John again. 

“John,” he said softly. “I realize that I made a vow never to leave you again. I believed, irrationally, it seems, that I could save us. I considered all available options but this is the only remaining avenue.”

Realizing that every action would be the last of its kind, he smoothed John’s hair. John shifted slightly in his sleep.  “You have given me the greatest gift anyone could have, even for such a short time, by allowing me to be with you, allowing me to love you. I do not believe I will ever fully understand why the emotion is reciprocated." He closed his eyes. The dream of the cottage with the bees was slipping farther and farther away. "If I had been given the rest of our lives to choose my words, I would never be able to express what you have done for me. I can do this for you, at least. I can save you.” 

Opening his eyes, he ran his thumb briefly over John’s lips and leaned in to kiss him, tasting him once more. He filed it all away in his mind palace, to the wing that had been dedicated to John, so that in his last moments he could call on it again. 

“I’ll be seeing you, John Watson,” he whispered. 

Before he could change his mind, he rose, tightening his scarf and striding from the room. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a Scottish rebellion in the 1740s in which Charles attempted to take back the Scottish throne and make Scotland autonomous again. Charles really did hide in the highlands for a time after his defeat.


	14. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for any confusion I may have caused by changing the title of this fic. I have been thinking for a while (since chapter five at least) that the original title simply doesn't fit the work as a whole anymore. Now that I have gotten this far and have figured out how I want it to end, I decided to finally change it. The reason I renamed it "Swan Song" will make sense eventually, I promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *kisses to Erin and Hannah.

_A fond kiss, and then we sever;_   
_A farewell, and then forever!_

_-Robert Burns, “A Fond Kiss"_

 

* * *

John chased Sherlock through the dark streets of London, but whether they were running from something or towards something, he wasn’t sure. His lungs burned with the effort to keep up as he followed the swish of the long coat in front of him, and the thrill of adrenaline pumped through his veins. Finally, gasping for air, Sherlock flattened himself against an alley wall, turning back to look at him.

“The game is on,” he said, flashing his toothy smile at John.

Something shifted, and he wasn’t running anymore. Was he dreaming? He must be dreaming. Sherlock was talking to him in soft, almost grim tones, then he kissed John briefly and was gone. John felt an aching emptiness, a nameless fear, pervading the deep recesses of his consciousness.

Slipping deeper into his dreams, John found himself running after Sherlock again, but he was falling farther and farther behind. John yelled at him to stop, to wait, but Sherlock turned a corner and was gone.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, waking with a start. His eyes still half-closed, he reached toward the other side of the bed, expecting to feel the long form of a disheveled and thoroughly shagged detective there, but his hand only met empty air.

John cracked his eyes open blearily, squinting against the thin stream of daylight coming in through the French windows. They hadn’t pulled the poster curtains closed last night, mostly because they had both been too knackered to bother.

It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to wake before him; in fact, he normally did. However, he would often stay in bed and watch John sleep, and John would almost always wake up with Sherlock snuggled up against him in some way.

Now, though, there was no sign of him.

“Sherlock?” John called drowsily towards the bathroom, but there was no reply. He was probably just downstairs getting tea, or in the library. Letting out a half-moan of exhaustion, John dropped his face back into the pillow.  It was still obscenely early, and between Sherlock’s long disappearance and their nocturnal activities, they had been up rather late.

He was contemplating being lazy and having a lie-in when his eyes fell on the bedside table, where Sherlock’s violin and a piece of paper were currently sitting. John frowned, wondering what the instrument was doing there. Sherlock always kept it in a safe and dry place, where it wouldn’t accidentally be knocked over.

But then his eyes alighted on the note: the piece of paper had been folded in half, and on the front it said simply,“ _John_.”

John stood quickly and snatched it up,staring at the lilting writing that he knew so well.

It could be nothing. It could just be Sherlock telling him that he was getting breakfast and he would pop back into the room any second. 

His heart pounding, John slowly opened it. There were only two lines of text.

 

_I love you, John. I always will._

_Trust no one._

 

John’s chest was heaving and he felt dizzy. 

Sherlock’s voice from that day on the roof echoed through his mind. _That’s what people do, don’t they, leave a note?_

He had feared this moment, dreaded it, for so long. Despite Sherlock’s many promises never to leave again, John had always feared that the inevitable outcome was for Sherlock to leave him again, whether it be from boredom or because he simply didn’t understand what he had been getting into. After all, in the entire time John (and Mrs. Hudson, for that matter) had known Sherlock, he had never been in any kind of relationship.

John’s eyes flicked to the violin, and his stomach bottomed out. If he had simply been leaving John, though, Sherlock would have taken the violin with him.

And last night, Sherlock had made love to him as if it had been their last night on earth.

He wasn’t expecting to survive whatever he had set out to do. He must have gone to Moriarty.

 _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

John dropped the note, pacing and running both hands through his hair.

What could possibly have made him do that? They’d had a plan to stay here and wait it out, to let Mycroft handle it all.

John stopped short, striding over to the chest of drawers and pulling on the first clothes he laid hands on. He had to tell Daphne right away, and hope they could track Sherlock down before he did something stupid.

He pulled on his boots, not bothering to lace them, and grabbed his jacket. As he opened the door, however, he stopped short.

 _Trust no one_ , the note had said. What the hell did that mean? Did that extend to Daphne? Mycroft? Had Moriarty listened in somehow? Had the security measures been compromised?

John closed the door again, slowly, so as not to make much noise. He had to be smart about this.

He didn’t know where Sherlock had gone, and he had no way to track him.  

_Think like Sherlock._

John paced back and forth furtively. Sherlock wouldn’t try to find Moriarty, he would make Moriarty come to him. He’d try and use something, or someone, for bait. All John had to do was let Moriarty find him. Maybe he could convince him to let Sherlock go if he agreed to take his place.

John exhaled, rubbing his eyes with one hand. It wasn’t the best plan-- in fact, it was a terrible one-- but it was all he could do.

He stood, nodding to himself as he made the decision. There was no other choice; he definitely couldn't sit here and wait while Sherlock got himself killed.

Heart pounding, he walked over to the closet and pulled out his suitcase. He unzipped it quickly, taking out the switchblade in the back pocket and tucking it into the back of his boots. Feeling around, he found the false bottom and peeled it back to reveal the secret compartment where his Sig was hidden.

He tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and strode quickly back over to the door, opening it just a crack.

According to Sherlock, there were seven cameras in the hallway. John estimated that there was about a fifty meter stretch between him and the room next to the library, which he could cross in about twenty seconds if he ran.

But he wasn’t going to run, because that would attract too much attention. He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked out calmly, as if it were any other morning.

John noticed the cameras adjusting as he walked by, but he didn’t look up at them, maintaining a steady pace which felt unbelievably slow. He was certain that the guards could tell, that they were going to rush in and stop him at any second.

He made it all the way across the hall without mishap, however. Pretending that he was a bit lost, he looked around confusedly before he went into the supply room.

Once he had closed the door, John breathed a sigh of relief. He grabbed the torch he had used to go down the tunnel before, walking quickly back over to the cedar chest.

He stopped short as it came into view: had already been moved out of place.

Sherlock had gone this way, and he hadn’t been stopped, apparently. _  
_

John dropped down onto his stomach and called down into the tunnel. “Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?”

His voice echoed slightly, but there was no reply. He didn’t know how long it had been since Sherlock left. One hour? Two? He could have reached the hills already.

Shaking his head, John lowered himself down the hatch. He clicked on the torch, and started walking.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock emerged from the mouth of the tunnel into the cave. There was a small amount of natural light from the opening to his left, but inside it was dark, almost sinister. 

He picked his way over jutting rocks to the mouth of the cave. The bitter October Scottish wind was currently blowing with vigor, whistling along the crags of rock outside.

His eyes alighted immediately on a Range Rover, not unlike the ones which had picked them up from the airport, which was parked nearby. Sherlock glanced around quickly, wondering who else could possibly be here. Had Mycroft figured out that he was missing already?

Sherlock’s phone pinged in his pocket, and he pulled it out.

 

_That’s for you. Chop-chop._

 

Sherlock scowled at his phone and then at the car, unsettled that Moriarty still had eyes on him somehow. There would obviously be some kind of surveillance inside the vehicle, and it could also be rigged with a bomb.

But in the end, what did it matter if he died now or later? And in a more practical sense, it was better than trying to pick his way across the Scottish highlands on foot.

He walked over, opening the door gingerly, but nothing happened. Trying not to let his shoulders sag slightly in relief, Sherlock sat in the driver’s seat and looked at the coordinates Moriarty had sent for the first time. From a cursory glance, it appeared to be in Aberdeen, at least a five hour drive.

His phone pinged again, and the text alert flashed over his screen.

 

_Get going. I’m not getting any younger._

_Oh, and you need to disable your phone. We don’t want Mycroft knowing where you are, now do we? So this is ta for now, darling. I’m waiting._

Scowling again, Sherlock pulled out the GPS chip Mycroft had installed in the phone, snapping it in two, then turned the mobile off. After loading the coordinates into the car's GPS, he started off.

 

 

* * *

John’s heart was pounding in his ears. He’d passed the small room long ago, and every time he turned a corner he thought he must be close to the end, but it went on and on endlessly. Every so often, he would call out Sherlock’s name, but only his own voice echoed back in answer.

Eventually the darkness in the tunnel started to lighten, and John sped up his pace, assuming that he was about to reach the cave. As he opened his mouth to call out for Sherlock again, however, he heard the faintest noise-- like the sound of a cocking gun. John froze, flattening himself immediately against the side of the tunnel, his hackles rising. He flattened his palm over the torch to hide the light as he listened.

There was no sound except the howling of the wind outside. Sherlock had told him once that this cave was called the Widow's Wail in Gaelic, and now he understood why.

Clicking off the torch as quietly as possible, John tucked it into the back of his trousers as he contemplated his next move.

If it was Moriarty and his minions, that meant they already had Sherlock. He may have already lost the element of surprise, but he’d be damned if he’d let himself be caught on his back foot.

Pulling his gun out slowly, John settled his shoulders into defensive position with the gun in front. The only thing he could hear was his own breathing and the whistling of the wind.

Counting to three, John flung himself around into the tunnel, expecting an immediate attack-- but no one was there. John was still breathing heavily, but he didn’t drop the gun, instead doing a sweep of the place.

He frowned. His soldier senses had never once steered him wrong, and something still felt amiss.

John walked slowly towards the front of the cave, cautiously, checking behind each jutting rock as he passed.

“Sherlock?” he called out tentatively. As he made it to the front of the cave, he glanced out over the expanse of the highlands under grey clouds. There were no signs of life for miles.

There was a soft thump behind him, and he turned in a flash, pointing his gun back inside the cave. His eyes had adjusted to the light, and he squinted, having difficulty distinguishing shapes.

Suddenly he was under assault from both sides. One arm slid around his shoulders, sinking some kind of needle into his neck. Something heavy hit him over the head, as a third set of hands grabbed his arms and pushed the gun into a neutral position so that when John fired it, the shot went into the wall of rock.

He fought against the vice-like grip holding him down, but his limbs already felt heavy, so heavy, and the last thing he heard before he blacked out was the high-pitched whistle of the wind.

 

 

* * *

After what felt like the longest drive of his entire life.  He parked the Range Rover on a side street, plucking the GPS off the dashboard and walking the rest of the way.

He glanced around as he walked, trying to spot the men who would take him in. He was almost certain that Moriarty himself wouldn't be here. People were milling about on Union Terrace, tourists mostly, and there was a large statue in the center with “Burns” etched on the base. He was obviously some historical figure that Sherlock had deleted.

Sherlock waited impatiently for several minutes, turning on the spot and wondering what the hell Moriarty was playing at, when he spotted it.

At the base of the statue was a small red flower in a vase, with a note tied to the stem.

His heart starting to pound, Sherlock strode over quickly and grabbed the note:  _Gotcha._

Panic flooded through him. The vase slipped from hands that could no longer grip it, falling and shattering into a thousand pieces.

Several people looked at him curiously, and a mother moved her children a bit farther away. He must look like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It wasn’t far from the truth.

Feigning calm, Sherlock turned towards the edge of the terrace, switching on his phone as he walked. There were dozens of missed calls and texts, and it started ringing again immediately.

Sherlock answered it and held it to his ear. He couldn’t speak; it was as if his throat had closed off.

“Just tell me you and John are together,” Mycroft said without preamble. “And that you are alright.”

Sherlock swallowed, trying to speak, but no words would come out. His whole body was starting to shake.

There was a long silence, punctuated only by the laughter of two children chasing each other around the terrace.

“He’s... he’s gone?” Sherlock finally managed to say, his voice sounding annoyingly fearful. "John's gone?"

Mycroft’s stony silence stretched on and on, telling Sherlock all he needed to know. “Where are you?” his brother prompted.

“Aberdeen,” Sherlock choked out.

“I’ll send someone right away,” Mycroft said tersely, and hung up.

His phone pinged again, and he clicked on the message with shaking hands. There was no text, only a photo attachment.

It was John, unconscious ( _not dead not dead please not dead_ ), his face covered in blood.

The hand holding his phone dropped to his side, and it fell from his fingers, clattering onto the stone.

Moriarty had John.

This had been his plan all along. Moriarty had known that Sherlock would give himself up willingly in exchange for John, and that it was the only way he would be able to separate them.

Sherlock swayed on his feet, clutching his hair with both hands. The world was falling apart around him, but no one noticed, because he remained absolutely still.

 

 

* * *

There was pain everywhere, even in John’s semi-conscious state.  Something in the back of his head was telling him that he was in danger, that he should be on guard, but he couldn’t remember why. His head felt like it was splitting in two, and there was something warm and sticky trickling down his face. 

“John,” a singsong voice said.

He felt cool metal tracing his cheek. “It’s time to wake up, Johnny boy,” the voice said softly.

John fought to wake. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on his side, yet he seemed incapable of shifting his position. He opened his eyes slowly, squinting, because the light was like splinters in his vision.  

Two deep green eyes were looking directly at him, and the barrel of a gun rested against the side of his face.

“D-Daph--” John stuttered, somehow unable to form a word. His head felt like it was splitting in two.

“Daphne. Yes, John, very good,” Daphne said in a patronizing way, as if she were speaking to a five year old.

“What… did you save me? Where…” John shook his head, trying to sit up, but his arms and legs were tied together.

He snapped up to look at Daphne, who was watching his struggles with amusement.

“What… happened?” he managed to ask. His mind was dulled, and it felt as though he couldn’t quite process things normally.

Daphne smiled again, her teeth glinting. “You’ve been out for some time. Welcome back.” She stood, brushing an invisible dust mote from her classic black sheath dress as she walked over to a seat and placed her gun on the side table. A man in a suit handed her champagne, and she smiled as she sipped from the glass.

Still utterly confused, John ripped his gaze from her and looked around. They appeared to be in a small airplane, not unlike the one they had flown in to Scotland. Once again, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

John closed his eyes, shutting out the abrasive light. His head felt fuzzy, and it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities that he had been concussed.

_Dammit, concentrate._

Daphne was their head of security. Mycroft had hired her, vouched for her, but she had kidnapped him?

One thing at a time.  

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked, opening his eyes.

She fluttered a perfectly-manicured hand as she sipped from her champagne flute again.

“He’s out of the way for now. I sent him on a wild goose chase.”

John’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?”

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “I knew Sherlock is the smarter of the two of you, but really…”

John was slowly starting to comprehend the gravity of his situation, and he shifted against his bonds slightly, testing them.

“Who are you?” he asked slowly.

“Oh, that’s the real question, isn’t it? The one question you all should have been asking from the very beginning, but none of you were quite clever enough.”

John wasn’t exactly sure what to say to that. “Do you work for Moriarty?”

Her moss green eyes focused on him for a long moment, and she laughed. Objectively, it was really a rather pretty laugh, like the tinkling of bells on Christmas morning, but it grated harshly against John’s skull.

“Do I _work for_ Moriarty,” she repeated, wiping a tear of mirth from under her eye.

John frowned again.

She snapped her fingers and two men in pseudo-military gear appeared. “Prop him up,” she said, flitting a hand towards John as if he were some object to be dealt with. “He’s looking more and more pathetic by the minute, not to mention the fact that he’s staining the carpet.”

The two men obeyed instantly, pulling John up and propping him against the wall. Everything hurt as he moved, which made John wonder how long he had been out.

Daphne waved the men away and stood up again. She sighed, smoothing back her elegantly coiffed hair and leaning against the side of the plane.

“There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you, you know,” she said, looking out the window contemplatively. “He was willing to give himself up, willing to die, just so that you could have a life. It's sickeningly predictable.”

They were both silent for a long moment, and the only sound was the whirring of the plane in the background.

“Who the _hell_ are you?” John mumbled finally.

Daphne glanced back at him again, cocking her head to the side. Pushing herself off the side of the plane, she sauntered back over to him.

“Who am I?” she repeated. It was barely over a whisper, but a ripple of fear cascaded down John’s spine. “You shouldn’t be asking ‘who’ I am, but rather ‘what.’”

Daphne raised one red-painted finger and traced it down John’s face from temple to jaw, leaning down to whisper into his ear.

“I’m the sound of an explosion ripping through Baker Street. I am the fear you have held in your stomach from the day that semtex vest was strapped to your chest. I’m the sound of Sherlock’s body hitting the pavement, and the feeling of dry leaves underfoot at his grave. I’m the feeling of saying Mary’s name instead of Sherlock’s at the altar. I’m the needle piercing Sherlock’s skin, the bullet ripping through your body. I am chaos. I’m everything and nothing. I’m your worst enemy, and you have never even known I existed.”

“You also have the biggest ego of anyone I’ve ever met,” John said loudly, attempting to cover the pounding of his heart. “And I know a few geniuses whose egos are the size of Big Ben.”

She chuckled. As she moved back, her eyes caught the light from the setting sun out the window.

“The frailty of genius, according to Sherlock Holmes, is that it craves an audience,” Daphne said silkily, standing up straight. “I may be a genius, but I’m also something else entirely. I am a creature of the darkness, the shadows. I’m patient, because an audience isn’t what I crave. I want more. I can wait for decades if I have to-- and I have, very nearly. Sherlock Holmes and men like him are creatures of the light, of truth. I’m the antithesis of those things.”

Her answers were just getting more cryptic, and he still had no idea what was going on or who she really was.

“Who are you?” John repeated, slowly, not sure if he really wanted to know the answer. “If you don’t work for Moriarty--”

She snorted, waving a hand in impatience. “Moriarty was a fabrication, my creation. I had to keep several degrees of separation between myself and anyone who was part of my operations, so I hired the actor Richard Brooks to play him for me-- quite convincingly, I might add. In exchange for a hefty sum to some family members, he was even willing to perform the ultimate sacrifice. It was necessary to force Sherlock’s hand."

John’s jaw dropped at the satisfied smile on her smug face.

“No, it’s not-- Moriarty is real--” John stuttered.

“No, he isn’t. In name, at least.” Her catlike eyes were watching him as if he were a bird she was toying with before eating it.

“So…” John shook his head, trying to clear it. It felt like he might black out again at any minute, probably due to the blow to the head he sustained in the cave in addition to whatever drug they had given him.

“So, in essence, there is no ‘Moriarty,’” she finished for him.

“Then what is your name?”

“Names aren’t important. What’s in a name? That which you call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

John looked at her incredulously, and she rolled her eyes. “Shakespeare. The point is, I am many faces, many names, in many countries all over the world. I’m all of them and none of them. Right now, my name is Daphne Magpie. The name ‘Moriarty’ is what you directed your fear towards, and in that sense, I am Moriarty.”

“But you’re...” John clamped his mouth shut, not daring to finish the sentence.

She laughed. “I’m what? A woman? You men, you think that women aren’t capable of playing the game. I love to play.” She smiled again. “Women have always been the most dangerous spies and assassins. No one suspects the beautiful woman in your bed to kill you in your sleep. Or when you're standing in a morgue, as the case may be.”

It was practically as painful as if she had slapped him in the face. “Mary," he said, hating her with every bone in his body.

“Oh yes, I planted Moran to make you fall in love with her. I had to, because Sherlock would have never let himself fall in love completely without that little push. Unfortunately, Magnussen had found out who I really was around the time you were married, and he was trying to blackmail me. My position in Mycroft’s security detail was already precarious, and I couldn’t take the risk. Mary was supposed to carry out the hit and pin it on one of Mycroft’s agents. I didn’t expect her to botch it up so spectacularly, but then again, no one is perfect. What is it they say? 'When you want something done right...'" She sighed theatrically, but there was no real emotion behind it. "At least she did the honorable thing and killed herself before she could be taken in and questioned. Shame, that. I was rather fond of her.”

John stared at her, his teeth clenched, trying to take it all in. Moriarty wasn’t real. Daphne was the real mastermind behind everything: the serial murderer cabbie, the bombs strapped to civilians years ago, Sherlock’s 'death,' even Mary.

“You have been working for Mycroft this whole time?” John asked weakly.

Her eyes twinkled, and her smile was an eerie echo of Sherlock’s gleeful grin when he was on a case. “Oh yes. It was marvelous, really. I gained his trust very slowly, and over a long time I planted moles in his private security. Once it was time to strike, I made sure that you were placed in that particular safehouse, because I knew Sherlock would show you the tunnel. Then all I had to do was convince him to give himself up in order to save you, and you would try to follow. Didn’t you think it was rather easy for you to sneak out of that safehouse? That was all my doing.”

John shook his head. “I don’t understand. All of this planning, all the games, making me fall in love with Mary, making Sherlock fake his death-- what has it all been _for_?” he asked in frustration.

“Aha, we finally arrive at the crux of the matter.”

She walked over to where the champagne was chilling, pouring herself another glass. “It’s very exhausting, you see, being me. Sometimes I wish there were two of me, because hardly anyone thinks as I do, but I can only be in one place at once. I needed someone to help me oversee operations, someone who thought like I do. About seven years ago, I found exactly the man I wanted.”

John gritted his teeth. “Sherlock.”

Daphne nodded as she took another sip, her expression cool.

“He’ll never agree to work for you,” John spat.

“Oh, course not,” Daphne answered, waving her hand. “Hence the long con. I had to wait until he was ready, shape him, ripen him like a fruit before I plucked him. I have been ever so patient, and it’s nearly time. I had to let him open his heart, expose it. That’s the only way I could be sure to remove it completely, so he can truly become me."

They stared at each other for a full minute as the implications of what she was saying sunk in.

 _I will burn the heart out of you_ , Moriarty had said. 

Sherlock’s voice echoed through his brain. _You’re my heart._

John was the only card she had to play, and he had walked right into her trap. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself silently. _I’m so sorry, Sherlock._

“Are you going to kill me now?” he asked, opening his eyes. There was really nothing left to say.

Her red lips curled upward into a smile. “No.”

“What, then?”

The plane banked slightly, and the light from the window slanted, illuminating only the lower half of her face. Her eyes were in shadow, and they glinted slightly, like dark coals.

“I’m going to pull you apart piece by piece, my dear Dr. Watson,” Daphne said pleasantly, as if she were discussing what they would have for tea. “And when I’m finished, I’m going to let Sherlock find you again.”

John’s chest was heaving, and he felt as though he were going to be sick. “Finding me in pieces won’t convince him to join you. He’ll hate you even more.”

Daphne’s eyes raked down his body with cold calculation. 

“Oh no, you misunderstand, John,” she said, her lips forming the syllables in a venomous caress. “I’m not going to pull you apart _physically_. Nothing so pedestrian. The original plan was to flay him open by letting him see you with Mary, but this is just as good. In some ways, it’s better."

John swallowed, setting his jaw and trying to keep his face blank. “No matter what you do to me, I would never hurt him again. I’d die first.”

 “Oh, what a stoic little soldier you are. I do enjoy a challenge.” She smiled again, a strange sort of sadistic joy etched in her features.“This is going to be rather fun.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There really is a statue of the poet Robert Burns in Aberdeen at Union Terrace. I’m sure you will sleep easy knowing that.


	15. The Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, this chapter includes graphic depictions of violence and torture, both physical and psychological.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as usual to Erin for being a rockstar.

 

_You have twenty-two new messages._

**beep**

“Sherlock, this is tiresome. You cannot track him any faster on your own.”

_Message deleted._

  

**beep** 

“Sherlock, it’s… it’s Greg. Er. You know, Lestrade. Please just tell us where you are. We’re worried about you, mate.”  

_Message deleted._

 

**beep** 

“Holding a misguided grudge against me is not going to save John, brother mine.” 

_Message deleted._

 

_All messages skipped._

_All messages deleted._

 

 

* * *

John had seen men tortured before. It was a reality of war; they needed information from insurgents, and they had to get it somehow. 

Some men were waterboarded, some were strapped down and their nails ripped off. Others were sleep deprived, or put in a room too small to lie down in. 

It wasn’t something he had particularly relished seeing, and he hadn’t participated in it himself. Along with so many other aspects of the war, it was something he had tried to bury in the deep recesses of his mind and forget about. 

Seeing it happen to others, however, could never have prepared him for this. 

He was kept in a dark room with a black bag over his head, and his arms and legs were strapped against a board, keeping him mostly upright. 

Once or twice a day, the black bag was removed and they would inject him with something. As soon as the needle pierced his skin, the drug would instantly rage through his veins like a firestorm. His head lolled back on his neck, his body sagged against the onslaught, and then… they would turn on the projector.

Picture after picture was projected on the wall: of Sherlock smiling, or crouched over a crime scene, or playing violin. 

John would try to close his eyes, but whenever he did, they would carve into his arms with a white hot blade. He bit down on his lip, but sometimes he would lose control and scream. He never begged for mercy-- he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Fully aware of what they were trying to do, John fought against the icy fear in the pit of his stomach, watching frame after frame of Sherlock’s face flick past.

Sometimes they would put headphones on his ears, blaring the sound of Sherlock's voice. Then they would send thousands of volts through his body until he was shaking and blood was running down his mouth. 

Sometimes, a faceless man would whisper in his ear, saying that Sherlock had never truly loved him, and that it had all been an act. Sherlock was a sociopath, incapable of loving someone. He had left John intentionally, never looking back. Sherlock didn’t care about John. He had left him here to rot. 

No. No. Sherlock would save him.

 _Oh? He will? Then where is he?_ the voice whispered. 

There were long stretches of time when he was left completely alone, which was almost worse. He couldn’t see or hear anything, and there was only the endless expanse of blackness stretching out before him.  

Through the haze, John fought to remember Sherlock without letting the fear take hold. He sifted through the memories in his mind, picking out the ones that held the most joy: Sherlock moaning in pleasure, his pale skin spread out beneath John for miles and miles; Sherlock rattling off rapid-fire deductions at a crime scene, his coat swirling around him; the dip of Sherlock’s waist below John’s fingers; the curls of his hair damp with Scottish rain; the curve of his lip under John’s tongue. He would fall asleep and dream of Sherlock, but more often than not the dreams would turn to nightmares.

The injections became his new status quo, and the terror became part of his body, sinking into every cell of his being. There was nothing he could do to fight it, no way to escape. With no windows or way to mark the time, he had no idea how long he had been there. It could have been days, weeks, or months. The hope that Sherlock would find him slowly faded and died, like the whispering of leaves over pavement, until all that was left was the pain and the stench of fear. 

After a lifetime of fighting, there came a day when John didn’t even notice when they injected him, because the fear had already embedded itself so deeply inside him. 

When they turned on the projector that day, John felt only the sharp bite of terror tinged with rage when he saw Sherlock’s face. 

For the first time, he didn’t fight it.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock crouched behind a dumpster near the warehouse and watched the guards go by, one by one. There were twelve of them total surrounding the building at any given time, moving in two concentric circles, one counter-clockwise, one clockwise. 

There were also at least ten cameras he could see from this angle, and several more guards watching from the roof.

It still seemed too easy.  

They had gotten sloppy. After six long months of nothing-- no chatter, no clues whatsoever-- they had left a breadcrumb trail so obvious that a child could have followed it. The whole thing could very well be a trap, but he had to take the chance.

Sherlock pulled the black mask down over his head and adjusted the rifle he had slung on his back. He was wearing the exact same clothing as the guards, which had taken more than a week to prepare. Waiting that long had been excruciating, knowing that John was probably in there, just beyond his reach.

Swinging his rifle around and holding it loosely in front of himself, Sherlock let his shoulders slump. He walked with a swagger that was completely different from his normal gait, striding out from behind the dumpster.

“Oy,” a guard called immediately, pointing his gun at him. 

“Hey, hey, cool it, just taking a leak,” Sherlock said in a rough accent.

The guard looked him up and down curiously, then lowered his weapon. “You ain’t supposed to break pattern,” he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get off my arse.” He strode with confidence towards the warehouse, feeling the guard’s eyes on his back the whole way, but no one stopped him. 

He entered the building and walked down the dank hallway, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach. It had been too easy. 

Shaking his head, Sherlock pushed those thoughts aside. He had to keep his concentration or he would lose his chance, and it could be the only one he would ever get.

He had used an infrared sensor to look at the heat signatures in the building, and there was only one figure which hadn’t moved at all in an entire day. The person was on the second floor, near the northwest corner of the building. If John was actually here, that was him.

Sherlock tried to keep his breathing even, but his heart was pounding in his ears. As he passed another guard, he tilted his head in recognition. Once the other guard was gone, he walked quickly to the opposite end of the building from where he believed John was being held.

When he came to a large empty room, he found a supporting beam and got right to work. He pulled blocks of C4 from the back of his pack to rig a bomb to the pole. Once he was finished, he added a timed detonator and set it for ten minutes. That should be enough time for him to reach John, and the explosion would cause a diversion, allowing them to escape.

Just as he was finishing, Sherlock heard a noise behind him. He stood up quickly, hiding behind the large pole where he had been fixing the bomb and peeking around it. The room was mostly dark, but he could make out the shape of a man at the entrance. After looking around for a minute or two, the guard turned and walked out again, and Sherlock slumped slightly in relief. 

Reaching down, he started the timer and strode quietly but quickly out of the room to the stairwell. Now that there was nothing left to do other than find John, a sense of panic had lodged itself again somewhere near his solar plexus.

If he had timed this right, the guard outside John’s room would be changing right now. Once he reached the landing, the guard (a woman, guessing by the height and stance) looked him up and down as if she wasn’t sure who he was. After a long moment, she nodded back and passed him down the stairwell. “He’s still sleeping,” she called over her shoulder. 

Sherlock walked quickly to the closed door, and as he reached for the handle, he paused, his heart pounding in his ears.After all this time, all the searching, he was finally here.  

Sherlock walked in and quickly closed the door behind himself.

His eyes swept the room, which was nothing like what he had expected. It wasn’t a torture chamber (or even a cell of any kind), but rather a relatively normal, furnished room.

His eyes fell on the figure on the bed, which was curled up in a fetal position with his back to Sherlock, his bare feet curled up against the comforter. Though he couldn’t see his face, Sherlock would know the back of that head anywhere.   

Sherlock pulled his mask off as he strode over, feeling as though he had momentarily forgotten to breathe. 

“John,” he whispered, reaching out to touch John’s shoulder. 

John didn’t move at first, but after a couple of seconds he opened his eyes, blinking as if disoriented.

His eyes met Sherlock’s, and for one long moment neither of them moved. Sherlock pressed his lips together, letting his eyes soak in the sight of John’s face. It was something he had feared he would never see again, at least not in this life.

“John,” he breathed, relief flooding through his body. 

Then, in a split second, everything went wrong. 

John ripped himself away from Sherlock, pushing himself up off the bed and flattening himself against the wall. His eyes widened, and those soft blue irises Sherlock knew so well were hardened, like chips of ice. John was staring at him with what could only be described as terror. 

Momentarily frozen in place with his hand outstretched, Sherlock gaped at him. Of all the horrifying possibilities he had considered-- that John would already be dead when he arrived, or that he would have been tortured within an inch of his life-- this hadn’t been one of them.

John’s chest was heaving and his eyes were darting around like a furtive animal looking for an escape.

“John,” Sherlock said slowly, “John, I need you to calm down--” he stepped forward just slightly, and John scrambled farther away from him, over to the far edge of the room. He curled into a ball in the corner, his whole frame shaking uncontrollably.

Sherlock watched him in horror, unable to believe what he was seeing. 

He knew that John had most likely been through a terrible ordeal, but at all the same, a strange fear twisted in his stomach. As he looked at this trembling, small, terrified man, there appeared to be nothing left of _his_ John-- of the stoic soldier who strode into battle with a calm face. The man who looked at him with so much love that it was overwhelming. 

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t have time to dwell on this. He had to get John out, then figure out the extent of the damage. 

Trying to quash the dread in his stomach, Sherlock pulled out the small needle he had stowed in his pocket but hadn’t planned on using. 

“John, it’s going to be all right,” he said calmly, even though he didn’t believe the words himself. 

John didn’t move, his face still pressed into his forearms and his body shuddering. It was almost like he was shielding himself against an attack. Sherlock heard a noise outside, and he checked his watch. He only had another minute until the bomb would detonate.

Moving as slowly as possible, so as not to frighten John again, Sherlock crossed the room toward him. John seemed not to even realize he was there anymore; he was wrapped up in his own pain, panting and shaking.  

When he was close enough, Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulder and sank the needle into his neck. John immediately whipped around, pulling away, and Sherlock had to grab his wrist.

“John, stop, I’m trying to get you out of here,” Sherlock whispered furtively, the pain lodging itself even more deeply in his chest. 

Within seconds John’s eyes started to droop and he stopped struggling. The serum wouldn’t put him completely to sleep, but he should be much more amenable to being moved. 

Sherlock pulled John’s arm over his shoulders, supporting his weight and trying not to think about how light and small he felt. Sherlock checked his watch again: less than thirty seconds. 

He put his mask back on and grabbed the glock which was tucked in the back of his trousers, glancing at his watch once more.

Three… two… one… 

A loud explosion ripped through the building, rocking it on its foundations. Sherlock flung the door open immediately, pulling John with him as quickly as he could.  

The warehouse was bedlam; a whole side had caved in with the force of the explosion, and everyone was running towards the blast. Sherlock pulled John in the other direction, knowing that there was another staircase and exit on the other side of the building. 

John was limp at his side, but at least he wasn’t struggling anymore. Sherlock gritted his teeth, trying to walk as quickly as possible without hurting John, because his motor skills were greatly diminished. Finally they had gotten down the staircase. Sherlock pushed the door open, breathing the open air of the damp night.

Directly outside, however, there were a dozen men with their guns trained directly at him, and a helicopter hovering directly beyond the fence. 

Sherlock stopped short, his chest heaving. 

“Drop the gun, and put your hands up,” one of the men said. Sherlock put down the gun, slowly, but didn’t let go of John.  

Sherlock pulled his mask up, raising his free hand over his head. "I surrender. Don't hurt John Watson. This was my doing."

“Do not fire!” A voice said from the helicopter. “Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!” 

Sherlock cursed silently, closing his eyes in relief. Mycroft. 

 

 

* * *

“You should get some rest.”

Sherlock didn’t move, continuing to stare straight ahead with his arms crossed. “I don’t need _rest_ ,” he said blankly. In truth, Sherlock felt utterly exhausted, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. 

“There’s nothing you can do to help him right now, little brother.”

Mycroft appeared next to him, following his gaze through the observation window. On the other side of the one-sided glass, John was sleeping fitfully on a hospital bed. 

“I have the best team I could assemble working on him,” Mycroft continued. “Doctors, psychologists. There is no need for your continued presence.”

“What was in his system?” Sherlock asked tiredly. “Some kind of hallucinogenic?”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Bad sign.

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and Mycroft’s gaze was one of pity. Sherlock despised him for it. 

“What?” Sherlock snapped. 

“There was nothing in his system, Sherlock,” Mycroft said evenly.

“Nothing? There can’t be _nothing_. You didn’t see his eyes. They were hard, empty." It was if John has been carved out and there was only a shell. 

Mycroft sighed, lowering his eyes and twiddling his umbrella handle.“There were traces of a drug in his system, the remnants of something that he hasn’t been injected with for some time. It is an experimental drug that was being developed in top secret labs, knowledge of which only a handful of people were privy to.”

“Including Daphne,” Sherlock said coldly.  

Mycroft bristled slightly. “Yes, including her.”

Sherlock scowled. “Need I remind you that John may know what her connection to Moriarty is? The only way you can save your precious reputation is to save him.”

As Mycroft turned slowly towards him, Sherlock expected him to look affronted, but instead his eyes held the tiniest flash of pain.

“You truly believe that my only goal is saving my own reputation?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. “What’s the drug? What does it do?" 

Mycroft pressed his lips together, hesitating slightly. “It’s called TK-432. The laboratory was still in the process of testing it on chimpanzees, not humans, however…” he cleared his throat. “Its purpose was to induce extreme terror in the subject.” 

Frowning, Sherlock turned back to look at John. “Why would they inject him with that?” he muttered. 

Mycroft cleared his throat again. “The drug was being developed for aversion therapy.”  

_Aversion therapy._

In a few seconds, the different points of data clicked together in his brain. John had been found with little to no physical injuries. He had some scarring on his arms, but the wounds had been stitched together expertly. They hadn’t wanted to hurt him physically, at least not much; and they had wanted him alive and in relatively good health.

No, physical torture wasn’t their master stroke. They had done something far worse: they had injected him with manufactured fear. 

The look of absolute terror in John’s face when he had seen Sherlock for the first time flashed before his eyes.

“Me,” Sherlock said, his breath fogging up the glass as he kept his eyes fixed on John. “They injected him with TK-432 and, what, made him recall memories of me?” 

“Something of that nature.”

Sherlock gripped the ledge of the viewing booth until his knuckles whitened. He knew that Moriarty had kidnapped John for some end, but he had never thought…

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, stepping towards him carefully.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth. 

Mycroft stopped short, watching him as if he were a bomb that was about to go off. 

Sherlock was still gripping the ledge and watching John’s motionless body. “What are the long term effects?” he finally managed to ask.

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, glancing back at John. “The clinical results thus far have been inconclusive, however--" 

“Just bloody _tell me_!” Sherlock shouted. He never lost control in front of his brother, and Mycroft’s eyes widened in surprise, his nostrils flaring slightly. 

His eyes flicked back to John’s form.“Apart from conditioned fear, the long term effects appear to be… psychosis and, in some cases, even dementia."

 _Psychosis. Dementia._ John’s fear of Sherlock was only the beginning. Everything that John Watson was, everything he had been, was erased, like wiping a chalkboard. 

 _Caring is not an advantage._ He had never learned that lesson, it seemed.  

“Has there ever been any record of recovery?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and gravelly.

Mycroft hesitated again, which gave Sherlock his answer. 

“Further testing is needed--” 

“Get out,” Sherlock spat.

His brother didn’t move, however. Instead, he reached out to rest his palm on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stared down at the hand, uncomprehending. A physical gesture of comfort? The Holmes brothers simply didn’t do that.  

He let his eyes raise to Mycroft’s, slowly, and his brother dropped the hand, pressing his lips together. He moved toward the door, pausing after he opened it. 

“One final thing, Sherlock. The only time there was any kind of improvement was when the subjects were reminded of something that they had once loved. But the method was different for each subject.” 

Sherlock simply looked daggers at him, and Mycroft took the hint, finally leaving the room. 

 

 

* * *

At first the doctors wouldn’t let Sherlock see John, except to observe through the glass. After a full month they let him enter the room, but John’s heart rate and breath increased so rapidly that the nurses shuffled him out again, afraid John would have a heart attack.

They ran every kind of psychological and physical evaluation possible, but the doctors had never seen something of this magnitude before. It was as if he were suffering from PTSD to the hundredth degree. 

Sherlock stayed in the facility, in a small, sterile room. He didn’t really care that the entire world was passing him by outside, that murders were going unsolved. His universe had focused down to a living body-- a single mind-- that had been ravaged beyond belief.  

Eventually they had Sherlock visit for very small increments of time, but John’s adrenaline levels would still spike whenever he saw Sherlock’s face. If Sherlock even came near to touching John, he would have panic attacks so severe that his whole body would go into shock. 

Every single time, Sherlock felt as though he were being ripped to shreds. Seeing John in constant fear, and being unable to comfort him, was the worst fate he could imagine.  

After several weeks of slow conditioning, John was able to stay relatively calm if Sherlock was in the same room, and even if Sherlock spoke to him.

He started playing the violin for John, because the music seemed to soothe him, if only slightly. It was better than nothing-- better than watching John stare at the wall day after day, or watching him wake, screaming, from nightmares night after night.

After a few months, Mycroft visited again. Sherlock was outside, smoking a cigarette. Mycroft silently held out a hand, and Sherlock plucked another from his pocket, handing it to him without comment.

“I doubt John would be pleased you took this up again,” his brother commented, taking a puff and coughing slightly. 

“Don’t talk about him as if he were dead,” Sherlock said evenly, squinting against the summer sun. When had it become summer? He couldn't quite remember. He was tired, so tired, but he could never sleep. 

Mycroft froze, apparently realizing he had made a _faux pas_. “Apologies,” he offered stiffly. 

They stood in silence for a few more minutes, before Sherlock threw his cigarette down. “I’m taking him home,” he said offhandedly, using his heel to smash it into the ground and stuffing his hands in his coat pockets. 

Mycroft snapped back to look at him. “I don’t think the doctors would advise--”

“He has stopped improving for the last month, and he’s not getting worse. He is able to stand me being in the room, at least.Would it hurt him to be removed from here?” 

“I suppose not,” Mycroft admitted grimly.

“Being back at Baker Street might…” _Might calm him. Might make him remember, might bring him back to me._

Mycroft looked at him with that pitying gaze again, which caused a ripple of disgust down Sherlock’s spine. “You cannot expect him to recover, Sherlock.” 

“I don’t _care_.” It wasn’t until he uttered the words that he realized their veracity. He wanted to be with John, even if the John he had fallen in love with-- the John of desert sunlight and wool jumpers-- was gone. 

Mycroft shifted on his feet, taking another drag of his cigarette.“Go back to London, resume your life. He is in excellent care, you can visit.”

“I won’t leave him. Henry sent you, didn't he? He can't stop meddling, even now.” 

Mycroft looked down his nose at him as if he were being a petulant child. “Sherlock--" 

“I. Will. _Not._ Leave. Him,” Sherlock bit off.

"You will have to move on eventually. You cannot live here for the rest of your life."

Sherlock raised his head to look at his brother, unsure if he could possibly hate him more than he did at this exact moment. 

“There is nothing to move on to,” he said venomously, turning on his heel and stalking back into the building.  

Back in his room, Sherlock threw his coat on his bed and grabbed his violin. He walked quickly over to John’s room, but John’s nurse stopped him with a worried look on her face. 

“It’s not a good day today,” she said in a rush. “I don’t think--” 

“I know what not to do,” Sherlock snapped. “I won’t set him off. Just… let me.”

She looked at him with that same pitying look everyone seemed to adapt in his presence of late, and he clenched his teeth, waiting patiently. After a moment she nodded, and he swept past her into the room.  

John was curled up on the hospital cot in a tight ball, his back to Sherlock. 

Setting his violin carefully on the side table, Sherlock walked over slowly and sat on the chair next to the bed. He stayed a good distance back, so as not to crowd him. He had to say this once, even though John wasn’t in a fit state to hear it. 

“John,” he said softly. “I know you may not completely understand this, but…” he cleared his throat. “It’s my fault that you are like this. I wish I hadn’t been so foolish as to think Moriarty would let it end so easily, that he would let me give myself up and save you. I failed you.” 

Sherlock halted, his throat in knots, and he had to swallow in order to continue. “I won’t leave you, John. I will live this way for the rest of our lives if I have to.”  

His eyes flicked over the body which he had loved with his entire being.They had both suffered so much, losing each other over and over again. Both of them had come out the other side alive, but the cost had been too great; Sherlock had lost John again, irrevocably this time.

Sherlock reached up gingerly, just to brush John’s hair with his fingertips, but John pulled away as if he had been burned. 

Sherlock flinched, retracting his hand quickly. No matter how many times it happened, John pulling away from him was always worse than any physical wound could have been. 

He swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. “No matter what happens, John, I will love you until my last breath. I promise.” 

There was no response or movement from the bed. 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with one hand, standing and walking over to his violin.“What do you want to hear today? Swan Lake, maybe?” 

John didn’t shift position, but at least he didn’t seem to be having an adverse reaction to Sherlock’s voice.

Taking this as a good sign, Sherlock kept talking as he tuned the instrument. “You know, according to legend, swans sing a wonderfully beautiful song as they are dying. It’s said to be the most stunning song of all, even more so because it is the precursor to death.” 

He put his bow on the strings, about to play the first notes ofthe “Swan Lake” overture, but something stopped him.

Instead, he closed his eyes, and for the first time in almost a year, he started playing John’s song.

He played the way John used to laugh, his head thrown back. He played the soft bright blue of his eyes, before they had been hardened with fear. He played the way John used to capture Sherlock’s gasps with his mouth, and speak calming words as Sherlock clung to him. He played the stance of the soldier who walked with pride despite his limp, and who ran towards danger rather than away from it. He played the dance of firelight on John’s golden skin, and the feeling of his fingers twined in Sherlock’s hair.

His heart bled with every note, more than when he had played at the wedding, more than when he had left John in the grey light of a Scottish dawn. 

Sherlock let the melody flow through his fingers one last time, knowing that it was the swan song of their love. 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what it’s worth, I am not a psychologist, and I am not sure if what I described here is anything near what someone could actually suffer from after this kind of torture. However, it’s fanfic, and I made up the drug, so let’s just suspend disbelief.


	16. The Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a ton to Erin for helping me iron out the wrinkles on this one, and to Hannah for being awesome as usual.
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who has commented. I wish I could respond to all of you, but I appreciate every single one.

John walked endlessly through an empty, barren wasteland. The clouds overhead were dark, threatening rain, but the rain never came. At first he thought he was in the desert in Afghanistan, but he couldn't be. Afghanistan was full of colour-- azure sky, golden sand-- and here, the colours had been bled from the earth. There was no sound, no air, no warmth. 

He walked onward until his bare feet cracked and bled, feeling as though he were searching for something. There was something he was supposed to be remembering.

Every once in a while he would catch a lilt of music in the air. Whenever he turned towards it, the sound would be gone, leaving behind the slightest, tiniest curl of warmth in the deepest parts of him. He chased the feeling, but he was hit by a flash of white-hot pain, and he retreated from it immediately.

John heard the music again, louder this time. He looked upward, turning on the spot, as if he would be able to see the notes dancing over his head.

The music swelled and blinding pain shot through him. He hunched over, fighting the urge to flee from the sound.

He had to listen; he _had_ to hear it. There was something about those notes… what was it?

He shut his eyes, concentrating hard, until he realized: it was a violin.

There was a flash of verdigris eyes, a pale white hand holding a bow.

The terror rushed his system again, but he fought tooth and nail against it, clinging to the notes. It felt like he was drowning, clawing through icy black water towards the surface. There was nothing to breathe, only icy knives stabbing him all over his body. The fear made thinking impossible, yet, as he let the song wash over him, he felt… he saw…

Sherlock.

The pain was unbearable, overwhelming, but he remembered. He forced himself to focus on his face.

John pushed through the black icy darkness until he surfaced, and for the first time in an eternity, he could breathe.

 

 

* * *

“Sh…?”

The bow slipped, just slightly, against the strings. Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his chest, and adrenaline rushed his system. He thought he'd heard John speak, but that was impossible.

“Sher… lock.” There it was again. He hadn’t imagined it.

Sherlock remained frozen in place, because there was no telling what John might do. Trying to quash the hope rising in his chest, he continued to play.

The figure on the bed shifted, turning over. John’s eyes were still closed, but his lips opened again as he said, softly yet clearly, “Sherlock.” As the word left his mouth, John’s face spasmed involuntarily, as if he were in physical pain.

Sherlock gaped at him. In the months since he had rescued John, he had never heard him utter a word, and he had definitely never said Sherlock’s name.

After a few seconds, Sherlock realized that he had stopped playing, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. John’s eyes slowly blinked open, and he looked up at Sherlock tentatively.

As their eyes met, John’s forehead furrowed and he gritted his teeth. Sherlock watched the warring impulses in his eyes: a battle between the cold, blank hardness that had taken residence there in the recent past, and the soft blue that was _his_ John. 

Sherlock slowly put down his violin and knelt by the bed.

Nurse Cummings walked in quickly, looking worried. “Mr. Holmes--” she began.

“Shh.” Sherlock interrupted. “Don’t move. Look at him.”

She glanced at John’s face, her eyes widening slightly when she saw his expression. John never stopped watching Sherlock for a second, ignoring her presence.

“Sherlock,” he said again, rolling the syllables around in his mouth as if he were still figuring out how to say it.

“I’m here, John. I’m here.” Restraining himself from touching John was unbearable, but one false move could make him retreat into himself again. He had to stay still.

John looked like he was concentrating extremely hard on something. Closing his eyes, he shook his head and winced slightly, muttering “no,” to himself.

After a moment, he opened his eyes again and looked at Sherlock hungrily. His lower lip trembling, he reached out a hand towards Sherlock.

John’s fingertips just barely brushed his cheek, and Sherlock couldn’t help but exhale deeply. John snatched his fingers back immediately, scrunching his eyes closed. When he reopened them, the cold, fearful stare was back, and John pulled back from him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Sherlock still had one hand extended, and he felt a tear roll down his cheek. He brushed it off angrily as he turned away, kicking himself inwardly. He shouldn’t have let himself hope that John was coming back, even for a second. 

Nurse Cummings, who was still standing with her hand on the door, watched him start putting his violin away.

“No, wait,” she said, stepping forward. “Just… try it again. Whatever you were playing before.”

Sherlock snapped the case shut, resting his hands on the side table and closing his eyes. “It didn’t work.”

“But it did. You saw it as well as I,” she said sternly, crossing her arms. “I’ve not seen him so lucid in the entire time he’s been here. He even said your _name_.”

Sherlock just shook his head wordlessly. He felt unbelievably exhausted, down to his very core.  Nurse Cummings waited patiently until he looked up at her again, wearily. She didn’t have to say it: he knew what she was thinking. If he never tried, then he would always wonder if he could have saved John this last time. After everything John had done for him, he owed him that much.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath and nodded. Taking the violin out of its case and raising it again, he turned towards John. He paused for a long moment, looking into the hard ice of those eyes, then he started to play.

At first nothing happened, and John continued to watch him like a frightened animal. After the first few measures, however, something extraordinary happened. Ever so slowly, the ice at the core of John’s irises seemed to melt. His features relaxed, and his fist, which had been clenched into the bedclothes, loosened its grip.

“Keep going,” the nurse whispered, quietly leaving the room to alert the doctors.

He continued to play long after the original melody would have ended. John’s song reverberated through the room, but Sherlock’s mind had focused down to the couple of metres that separated him and the man he loved more than his own life.

He played until his fingers felt raw and his neck felt like it was going to spasm, but he didn’t dare stop. Eventually, after what felt like hours, John shifted again. He shook his head, as if he were trying to clear it.

"Sherlock."

“John,” Sherlock breathed.

John sat up slightly and clutched his head, cradling it in both hands. “Stop, stop playing. My head...”

Sherlock lifted the bow from the strings, his heart pounding again. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly.

“I…” For the first time, John looked around the room. “Where-- where the hell are we?” He didn’t seem afraid, though he was trembling slightly.

Sherlock licked his lips. “Somewhere safe.”

“I’ve heard that one before. I’m starting to think you have no idea what that word means.” John raked his hand over his hair, his forehead creasing as if he were trying to remember something. Sherlock swallowed, unable to believe it. John wasn’t simply speaking again; he had just made a _joke._

Sherlock turned to put the violin down, and he tried to get his breathing under control. John was lucid, at least for now, but he could easily slip backwards. Sherlock had to try and keep him talking as long as possible.

He turned back to John, who blinked up at him in an almost childish way. “Are we in hospital?”

Sherlock chewed his lower lip. “Yes, of a sort.”

“Of a sort?” John repeated, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock. “What happened? I don’t remember, I-- was I injured?” He looked down, taking stock of his body. Sherlock tried to stop him, but he caught sight of the marks on his arms.

John froze, his eyes glittering with panic and his breathing accelerating dramatically. Sherlock automatically reached towards him, but John scrambled upright, putting the bed between them.

The door opened and an orderly appeared. “Mr. Holmes?” he said looking pointedly at Sherlock, silently asking if he needed help. Sherlock shook his head, and he nodded, retreating quickly.

“John,” he said softly, trying to calm him.

“No, stay back.” John squinted his eyes closed, shaking his head again. “I can’t… what happened to me? I feel…”

After a moment his face relaxed, and he opened his eyes again, looking at Sherlock with confusion and a hint of shock. “I’m... _afraid_ of you.” He said the words slowly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Sherlock pressed his lips together again, trying to decipher the best course of action. He could lie, trying to keep John stable longer, or he could tell John the truth. He had no idea which would be better for him long-term.

“What do you remember?” Sherlock asked softly, aiming for neutral ground.

John grasped his head in both hands. “I… I was… god, I was being _tortured._ You were there--” his eyes widened, and he stepped back even further. “ _You_ did this to me?”

It took every ounce of Sherlock's self-control not to move towards him. “No, John, I wasn’t there. Your memory has been tampered with.”

John turned towards the wall, hugging himself with his arms. “I just remember the constant fear. It was like I was drowning in it. And your face, your voice. The darkness, the cold... it was so cold.”

Sherlock hesitated. John was remembering everything that had happened to him too quickly, like a floodgate opening. If they weren’t careful, it could overwhelm him and he would be worse off than before.

“John, I would never hurt you. I promise. I’m going to move closer to you now. Please, don’t be afraid.”

John didn’t move, but his small body-- how was it so small?-- was still shaking. Sherlock walked around the bed until he was in front of John again.

John looked up at him, the warring impulses fighting each other in his eyes again. He was still in a defensive position, as if he expected Sherlock to attack him at any moment.

“It wasn’t… you?” John asked tentatively. “You didn’t…”

“No, John,” Sherlock said. “You should rest, I’ll tell you more when you’re--”

“No. Now.” John said, straightening up slightly in an echo of his soldier’s stance.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over him, trying to assess his mental state. “It appears that, in addition to torture, they injected you with a drug that causes extreme terror, psychosis, and dementia," he said slowly. "It’s a sister drug to the one we encountered at Baskerville, but the effects are long-term.”

“Oh, god,” John breathed, raking his hand through his hair.  “How long was I...?”  

Sherlock shook his head. This was all too much, too fast; John might not be able to handle it.

“Sherlock,” John said in his warning tone. It was so close to normal that, despite the precariousness of the situation, Sherlock felt relief flooding through him.

“They had you for six months. You’ve been here for three.”

John glanced around the room again, turning pale. “I lost almost a year?”

He was trembling and breathing shallowly, as though he weren’t getting enough air. Sherlock recognized instantly that this was the threshold: John was teetering on the edge of going into shock.

“John, please, lie back in bed.” Sherlock reached towards him tentatively.

“No, no,” John hung his head, shaking it.

Sherlock waited for another agonizingly long minute, until John slowly raised his eyes to look at him again, taking shuddering breaths. Sherlock felt a wavering intensity starting to build between them, like two magnets being held apart, but he decide whether to move. In the end, John made the decision for him. In one swift movement, he closed the space between them, pulling Sherlock down by his curls and crushing their mouths together.

Sherlock made a small noise of surprise, but he didn’t pull John closer or wrap him in his arms.

John made a small whimper as if he were in pain, and Sherlock tried to step back, but John held him in place with a vice-like grip. He pressed his tongue against Sherlock’s lips, seeking entry.

Sherlock couldn’t quite wrap his head around what was happening. Only minutes ago John had still been unable to look at him without fear clouding his eyes, and now they were kissing.

He broke away slightly, breathing hard. “John, this is too much for you all at once, we shouldn’t--”

“You don’t… understand,” John said haltingly, taking short sipping kisses from Sherlock’s mouth. “Somehow, touching you, it’s like… I was drowning, and now I can breathe again.”

“Just a few minutes ago, you would flinch as if you were burned when I touched you.”

Pain sliced through John’s gaze. “I-- I need you, Sherlock,” he whispered. “Please.”

He pulled Sherlock closer and Sherlock’s hands automatically grasped him by the waist. Sherlock didn’t push forward, but John edged on the kiss as if his life depended on it, devouring Sherlock’s mouth.

“I think we should stop,” Sherlock said, breaking away after another long snog.

“Why?”

“The men in the observation room are getting quite a display.”

John’s eyes widened. His gaze flicked over to the one-way mirror, then back up at Sherlock, his mouth contorting slightly in what almost looked like amusement. Sherlock ran his thumb over John’s cheek, unable to believe he had just seen John smile. John closed his eyes, swaying on his feet slightly as he leaned into the touch.

“John, get back in bed. You have barely stood up for months--”

“No,” John said quickly.

“John, please. Just for me.” John still felt so fragile, even cradled in Sherlock’s arms.

John sighed. "Fine. If I have to lay down again, though, you’re joining me.”

Sherlock hesitated slightly as John pulled him towards the bed, but he didn’t protest. He was completely at a loss as to whether John would react positively or negatively to anything at this point. John wasted no time once they lay down, curling himself into Sherlock’s body and breathing in deeply. As Sherlock watched him drop off, he felt his own eyelids drooping, but he didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t help but feel afraid that when he awoke, this would have all been a dream.

 

 

* * *

Despite his efforts to the contrary, Sherlock must have dozed off. The next thing he knew, he was waking up to the sound of John hyperventilating.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and he reached towards John automatically. He was shaking in his sleep, curled up in a ball as far away from Sherlock as possible. Sherlock had witnessed many of John’s nightmares since he had come back, but this one was different, more violent.

The door opened and Nurse Cummings hurried into the room, holding a syringe. “Sherlock, stand back, I need to sedate him--”

“No,” he snapped. “Don’t. Wait.”

She halted, watching her patient, who was obviously in severe distress. Sherlock tentatively touched John’s shoulder, and when he did, John shuddered slightly but didn’t flinch away. Buoyed by this small success, Sherlock slid towards him, pulling John’s body closer until he was flush behind him. John’s forehead was still furrowed, but his body stopped shaking quite so much. Sherlock kissed the back of his neck, resting his nose against John’s skin.

Slowly, ever so slowly, John’s body relaxed, and soon his eyes blinked open.

“Sherlock?”

Relief flooded Sherlock’s body, and he glanced up at Cummings. She had been watching these proceedings with interest, and when she met his gaze, she smiled. Without further comment, she turned and walked out the door.

Sherlock kissed John’s shoulder. “I’m here, John.”

“It was… I was…”

“Shh,” Sherlock smoothed a hand over his stomach. “It’s over, now.”

John turned over, curling into Sherlock again, his body still trembling slightly. “When will it stop?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

Sherlock paused. “I don’t know,” he admitted. John nestled closer to him, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

“I love you,” John whispered into Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat. He had never expected to hear John say those words again. 

“Always,” he replied, kissing John’s forehead lightly.

 

* * *

It was another two weeks before Sherlock could convince the doctors to release John. They insisted on subjecting him to a gamut of extensive physical and mental therapy to make sure that he would fully recover. Sherlock secretly suspected, however, that what they really wanted was more data about the effects of the drug and his miraculous recovery from it.

Memories of being in captivity and the events leading up to it came back to John in small doses, but he still couldn’t remember how he had been captured or by whom.  At first, he still woke up from nightmares at least twice a night, but Sherlock was always there to hold him until the terror passed. Sometimes John wouldn't remember what had happened when he woke. Whenever he flinched away from Sherlock again, Sherlock always felt a paralyzing fear that he had regressed fully, but it never lasted. Soon, those episodes were farther and farther apart, until they disappeared completely.

Finally they were released, on a bright summer morning. As John dozed against his shoulder in one of Mycroft's cars, Sherlock watched the familiar cityscape coming into view. It was his city, the former lifeblood of his heart-- but he had been more than willing never to see it again in order to stay with John.

Mycroft had apparently informed Mrs. Hudson of their impending return, because she greeted them at the door. She flapped about them protectively, and Sherlock let her hug him for a full thirty seconds, blubbering as she was wont to do. He declined her invitation for tea, but she was mollified by their acceptance of her offer to bring some up for them after they had settled.

The apartment had been freshly cleaned and new linens put on the beds. Sherlock put his violin down, as John opened the windows in the living room to let the fresh air in. 

“Sherlock,”he said abruptly, drawing the curtain to the side, his face turning anxious.

Sherlock crossed over to him quickly, following his gaze. Across the street, there were two plain clothed men who were obviously not civilians. They had guns in holsters under their jackets, hidden from sight but creating a telltale bulge.

Sherlock frowned. “Mycroft’s new security detail. He had to completely rebuild it from the bottom up after we found out Daphne was Moriarty’s mole. It was too hard to tell whom she had planted purposefully.” 

“Jesus, I thought…” John froze, his eyes glazing over slightly. 

“John?” Sherlock stepped toward him.

“Daphne.” John turned away. “There’s something so important about her… sod it. Everything is in bits and pieces, like a puzzle. I know it’s supposed to fit together somehow. God, why is it so hard to _remember_?” He started pacing back and forth in frustration.

“It will take time, John, and you may never remember it all. You are fortunate that you have been able to recollect even this much, according to the doctors.”

“I know that, don’t you think I _know_ that?” John snapped.

Sherlock didn’t respond, clamping his mouth shut. John was in the kind of mood that wouldn’t be helped by further argument, as he often was when his memories started to return. Instead, Sherlock walked over and started to tune his violin.

Suddenly John stopped short, and Sherlock glanced over at him.

He was glaring at Sherlock’s violin, his fists clenched at his sides. “You left your violin behind.”

Sherlock froze, his hand still on the strings. 

“You left me to go to Moriarty," John continued, his face a mask of pain. "And you didn’t think you were going to come back. You broke your promise."

Sherlock took his violin off his shoulder, feeling stunned. The flat was utterly silent, punctuated only by the sound of a child laughing outside.

Sherlock, stepped forward, about to say something, but John held up a hand to stop him. “Just tell me why,” he asked, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

“I had to save you,” Sherlock said. “Moriarty offered me a deal, my life for yours. No tricks, no faked deaths. But of course, it wasn’t that easy,” he added bitterly.

John shook his head.  “You can’t keep doing this, Sherlock. You _promised._ ” He leaned against the wall next to the kitchen, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it, not entirely sure what was happening.

_I can’t do this anymore?_

The modicum of tentative happiness that had bloomed in his chest over the past two weeks suddenly evaporated. Sherlock pressed his lips together, watching John. There were so many small things that had brought them here, so many decisions and coincidences that had culminated in this moment. They were at another crossroads now; another fork in their collective destiny, after which their lives could go one way or another.

John was back in his right mind, more or less, at this point. He didn’t need Sherlock anymore, and being with Sherlock always put him in the line of fire. John had lost so many years of his life because of him, it was only natural that he would want a way out.

Sherlock turned away with some effort, putting his violin back in its case.  “I realize that I do not deserve your forgiveness, John, and neither do I ask you for it. I am to blame for what has happened to you, all the pain that you have suffered-- my fake suicide, Mary, being captured and tortured by Moriarty. If you wish to leave, so be it.” His heart felt as though it were splintering into thousands of pieces as he said the words. He snapped the case shut, but he didn’t turn around. He couldn’t look at John right now.

“You _cock,_ ” John said from behind him. “You utter cock. After everything that has happened, you would give up that easily?”

Sherlock turned around as John crossed the room to him. “I don’t mean I want to _leave_ you. I mean that I can’t constantly worry about you giving yourself up to save me. I told you, before Scotland, that I can’t do it anymore.”

He grasped Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down until their foreheads rested against each other.

“You promised,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

“I know,” Sherlock replied, because there was nothing left to say.

John’s fist clenched in his collar. “Just stop it. Stop trying to leave me, and stop trying to save me. All I want, all I’ve _ever_ wanted, is to live and die with you. Together or not at all. Is that so hard for you to to understand?”

Sherlock slid his hand into John’s hair. “John, there will never come a day when I’m not astounded that you wish to be with me. In my mind, it was not a stretch that you would want to leave.”

“Funny, that's exactly what I used to think about you. That was my first reaction when I found your note, until I realized that you had left your violin.”

"You're an idiot," Sherlock said softly. 

"Well we are both idiots, then." John leaned upward to press his mouth to Sherlock’s briefly. “You are the only thing that makes me feel sane. The nightmares, the fear that I sometimes still feel when I see your face, the moments when I panic because I can’t remember something… it’s only because of you that I’m fighting at all.”

Sherlock stroked his hair gently with one hand. “I promise I won’t leave you again.”

“No,” John said, shaking his head again. “Promises mean nothing to you, apparently. The promise is negated as soon as I’m in danger, and you run off to get yourself killed in my place.”

“John, I--” Sherlock began, but he ducked his head, averting his eyes. “I’m afraid,” he whispered.

_I’m afraid of how much I love you, how much I have been willing to give up for you. It’s so much bigger than us both._

“So am I. I’m bloody terrified. But everything truly worth having is something you’re afraid to lose. The worst that could ever happen to us has already happened, after all; you died, then I got married, then shot, and then I almost lost my mind. Yet here we are. I would relive all of it a thousand times over before I turned away from you.”

He reached up to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pulling him down until their lips met.

“Take me to bed,” John murmured between kisses.

Sherlock froze. “It might not be good for you--”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John said sternly, nipping his earlobe. “Take me to bed.”

Sherlock groaned. It had been so long since he had been with John that Sherlock's brain lost the battle against his body. He pulled John towards his room, kicking off his shoes as he went. 

“God, I want you so badly,” John breathed as he unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock kicked open the door behind him as John peeled it down his shoulders.

“Trousers,” John said hoarsely, breaking away long enough to strip off his clothes.

Sherlock quickly divested himself of his remaining clothing and John pushed him onto the bed. He started kissing down Sherlock's chest, tonguing each of his nipples as he went and starting to stroke Sherlock’s cock. With his other hand, he massaged down Sherlock’s perineum, teasing over his opening.

Sherlock arched his back automatically, pressing himself harder against John’s body. “Fuck,” John swore.

“John,” he gasped. “It’s been too long, I’m not going to last long enough to--”

“Me either, don’t worry,” John said.  “I just need to feel you, all of you.”

John licked his hand, reaching down to grasp both of them and started thrusting forward. Sherlock shuddered, moaning slightly as he rocked his hips up into John’s.

“Sherlock, Jesus.” John leaned down to bite in the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, and a shiver ran down his spine.

Sherlock grasped him by the arse, pulling him forward, wanting every thrust to be harder, to touch more of John. They slid against each other, small gasps and moans escaping into the familiar rooms of their flat. Sherlock wrapped himself around John as closely as he could be. He felt compelled to convince John-- and himself--  that they were still here, that they still had each other, always.

“Oh god, Sherlock, I love you, I love you,” John panted into his ear, and Sherlock felt himself getting close already.

“John,” he gasped. “I’m--”

“God, you’re gorgeous, love. Come for me.”

“John." Sherlock spurted over his stomach, and John bit down on his shoulder to muffle his own cries. 

Sometime later, John grabbed his shirt from the floor and cleaned them off, pressing a kiss into Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock was not quite in control of his limbs, but he managed to pull John down for one more kiss. Then he rested his cheek on John’s chest, listening to his heart slow and inhaling the scent of their lovemaking.

John carded his hand through Sherlock’s hair absently, settling against him.

“I remember something else,” he murmured eventually.

“Oh?” Sherlock said drowsily. It felt as though the past few months was finally catching up with him.

“You were playing our song. When I ‘woke up,’ you were still there.”

“Yes.”

“Nurse Cummings told me before we left that you had given no indication you would ever leave. In fact, you actively refused Mycroft's orders to come home."

“Yes,” Sherlock said again, tentatively.

John scooted down to Sherlock’s eye level.  “Even though I was petrified of you? Even though I was, for all intents and purposes, in end-stage dementia? You would have actually stayed?"

Sherlock let his eyes wander down John’s form, the body he hadn’t held for almost a year, and he had thought he never would again.

“For better or for worse, isn’t that the saying?” Sherlock said softly.

John propped himself on one elbow, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Only if you’re married.”

Sherlock didn't reply. He just drank in the soft cerulean ocean in his eyes, letting himself bask in warmth in John's gaze. 

“Sherlock.” John was watching him quizzically.

Sherlock sighed, reaching up to trace John’s lips with his fingers. “Your declaration the night before we went to Scotland… that was the only vow I needed to hear. I have never said it in so many words, I know, but I don’t need a piece of paper. I chose you long ago, and you told me that you had chosen me. If you want to make it ‘official,’ as they say, I’m willing to do so. You said I cannot simply make a promise not to leave you again, but I can do this. Until death do us part.”

He pulled John’s left hand up and kissed the ring finger, looking up at him through his eyelashes.

John was gaping at him, unmoving. Sherlock lowered his hand, unsure if he had understood.

Then, in one swift movement, John swung his leg over and straddled him, leaning down so that their faces were mere centimeters apart.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said, “Are you proposing to me?”

Sherlock bit his lip. “I’m saying that, as far as I’m concerned, we are already married. However, if it means something to you, I-- oomph.”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence, as John had closed the gap between their mouths and was snogging him senseless.

"Is that… a yes?" Sherlock managed to gasp.

"Shut up," John said, sliding down his torso with a mischievous look on his face.

"What are you doing?"

John arched an eyebrow. "I'm giving my brand new fiancé a blow job to end all blow jobs, if that's alright with you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his lips curl upward into a grin.

 

 


	17. The Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the interminable delay between updates, guys. I don’t know how many of you follow me on tumblr, but my life has been so crazy that I have barely had time to breathe, let alone write. When I did have a free moment, I was often so exhausted that I would just stare at the screen or write a couple of paragraphs. A far cry from writing 10K words in a week, eh? But the good news is that I have the end of this story more or less planned out, and I’m pretty sure it won’t be such a long time before another update. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> As usual, thanks so much to Erin for being a total rock star.

 

As the late afternoon light slanted across the room, John dozed, the grin never truly leaving his face. 

Sherlock had proposed to him. _Sherlock_ had _proposed_. The man who had once told him that he “was married to his work” wanted to be married to _him_. 

So much had happened, and they were not out of danger yet, but at least now they were together, and would stay that way.

John smiled even wider, his eyes still closed, and he nestled backward a little bit more against the warm, lanky body behind him. Sherlock had fallen asleep immediately after the celebratory blow job and hadn’t stirred since. The past months had obviously taken more of a toll on him than he had admitted to John.

As the dusk finally faded into night, John finally dropped into a deep sleep. Darkness surrounded him, velvety and thick. He was immobile, but he wasn’t chained; it was as though his body wouldn’t obey his commands. He tried to move or to cry out, but despite his efforts, there was only suffocating darkness and silence.

There was a faint wisp of familiar perfume on the air, and John felt a cold slice of fear. A painted nail traced a line down his cheek, and through the dim light he could see a flash of white teeth beyond smiling red lips. A woman’s voice whispered into John’s ear like a caress.  _“Oh, this is going to be rather fun.”_

“John. John wake up.” A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

John’s eyes flew open, and he wrenched himself away from the grip, jumping off the bed.  He felt his entire body tense against the impending attack as he whipped around.

There was no attacker, however; only Sherlock, his eyes wide and his hair still mussed with sleep. His arm was outstretched towards John.

“John, you were having a nightmare,” Sherlock said cautiously. “Put that down.”

John blinked at him in confusion, looking down at his hands. He had apparently grabbed the nearest object that could be used as a weapon, which happened to be the lamp on Sherlock’s bedside table. John put it down immediately, clenching his fists and trying to get his breathing under control.

“John.” 

John glanced back at him. Sherlock had been his movements with apprehension, but he relaxed visibly as he met John’s gaze.

Without saying a word, John climbed back into bed. wrapping himself around Sherlock’s body as closely as he could. He buried his face in Sherlock’s neck and willed his body to stop shaking.

 

 

* * *

John clung to Sherlock as if his life depended on it, and Sherlock held him tightly. No matter how many times it happened, watching John awake from the nightmares never seemed to get any easier.  It was the most helpless feeling in the world, in some ways even worse than searching fruitlessly for John for months on end had been-- because this was a battle within John's mind.

“Sherlock,” John said into his neck after several minutes.

“I’m here,” Sherlock whispered, smoothing a hand over John’s hair.

“Daphne.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion.  “What of her?”

“She’s Moriarty.”

Sherlock froze, pulling back slightly until he could see John’s face. He scrutinized John’s eyes for traces of dementia, but he was lucid, his eyes fearful yet clear.

“Are you certain?” Sherlock said carefully. “You know that your memories--”

“I’m sure. She was...” John closed his eyes.  “We were on a plane, exactly like the one we took to Scotland. It could have been the same one, for all I know.”  

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying to decide how to proceed. John was still in a fragile state, and he could easily have a panic attack if Sherlock wasn’t careful. “Your mind has jumbled memories and faces together,” he said softly. “We first saw her on the plane, remember?”

“I’m not misremembering, Sherlock. You _have_ to listen to me. It’s coming back. The rest of it.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly, watching him. John still appeared to be clear-headed, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

"You don't believe me, do you?" John pushed him backward and stood up, rooting around in his discarded clothing until he found his trousers.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to make some tea, and I would rather not be starkers in case Mrs. Hudson or your brother walks in, if that's alright with you.” John pulled the trousers on and stalked from the room.

Sherlock sighed. Despite his obvious fatigue, it was unlikely that John would fall back asleep in this agitated state, so it wasn’t worth arguing. He got out of bed, grabbing one of his old dressing gowns from the cupboard and shrugging it on.

When he entered the kitchen, John was filling the kettle at the sink. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, fighting the urge to move forward. He had a strong desire to comfort John physically, but he also didn’t want to crowd him.

“She told me everything,” John said without turning around. “Every single thing from the very beginning was orchestrated by her. Our first case together, hiring Richard Brooks as ‘Moriarty,’ the night at the pool, making you fake your death, setting Mary on me... it was all her. It was all _her_.” He slammed the kettle on the stove on the last word, resting his hands on the counter.  “And she was right under our noses the whole time.”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s impossible. Moriarty--”

John whipped around, clenching his fists. “There _is_ no Moriarty, don’t you see? Daphne is so much worse. She’s the spider you could never have dreamed of. She always kept herself one step removed from everything, buried deep within Mycroft’s own network of security. It was the perfect hiding place, and the perfect position to find out everything about you. You wanted to see an adversary in the flesh, so she gave you Moriarty. The only reason she let me realize her true identity was because she thought I was going to lose my mind,” he said bitterly.

“John.” Sherlock took a tentative step towards him.

John stepped back, narrowing his eyes. “How did she contact you?”

“Daphne?” Sherlock frowned.

The kettle clicked. John turned to take out some teacups, rinsing the dust from them. “You told me she made a deal with you, your life for mine. She must have contacted you somehow in order to get you to agree. How?”

“I... I hadn’t planned on telling you any of this, John." Sherlock raked his hand through his hair. 

“I know. You’re going to tell me now, though.” John poured them each a cup, and carried them to the kitchen table. Sherlock followed, sitting down and taking his tea.

“Alright, out with it,” John prompted. 

Sherlock sighed. “Moriarty had been texting me through an unknown blocked number,” he said. “I ignored most of the texts until that final day.”

John raised an eyebrow. “The day you went out on the highlands for eight hours in a storm without telling me why?”

Sherlock paused. “Yes.”

“How long?”

“John--”

“I _said_ , how long? How long had Daphne been goading you, wearing you down? How long had you been lying to me? Was it when we got to Scotland, or even before that?”

Sherlock looked down at his tea. “ _Moriarty_ had been texting me since the night we returned from hospital.”

John was silent, and Sherlock said nothing more, still staring at his teacup to avoid John’s gaze. He listened to the wail of a siren in the distance and the steady drip of the faucet that John had failed to turn off completely. 

“No wonder you were acting so strangely that night. I _knew_ it was something,” John said eventually. His voice was soft, almost to the point of sounding hurt.

Sherlock looked up at him, but John was staring at the wall behind him. “I was trying to protect you,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I know.”

Sherlock hesitated, then reached over to take John's hand. John blinked slightly, his gaze finally focusing back on Sherlock's face. “What did she say to you?” he asked after a moment.

Sherlock was about to say that it was unimportant, but something in John's expression stopped him. Instead, Sherlock stood, striding into the living room where he had discarded his Belstaff and taking his phone from the pocket. As he walked back to the kitchen, he clicked to the texts from Moriarty and handed it to John.  

Once he was finished reading them, John slowly raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “She knew exactly how to make you give yourself up,” he said softly. “She knows you better than either of us does.”

“I doubt there’s anyone in the world, man or woman, who knows me better than you, John.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You still don’t believe it was her.”

“No,” Sherlock said slowly.

Shaking his head, John scrolled back up to the earliest texts and handed the phone back to Sherlock, crossing his arms and sitting back in his chair. Sherlock frowned, looking at the screen.

_The tenth doctor is my favourite. Well, let’s be honest, the Master is my favourite._

“This proves nothing other than Moriarty had bugged our flat,” Sherlock said bitterly.

“You told me that Mycroft’s ‘people’ had swept this entire flat three times over and put in their own surveillance. Who was the one person we know for sure had access to all of that?”

“Daphne,” Sherlock admitted grudgingly.

“Yeah. As the head of Mycroft’s security, Daphne would have had access to all of his surveillance. She probably even oversaw its installation. That was how she had heard us talking the night before we went to Scotland.”

“John,” Sherlock shook his head in exasperation. “We are already aware that she was Moriarty’s mole, she could have just told him what we said.”

John pinched his nose. “Sherlock. I’m telling you, my memory is back. I don’t know how, but it is. And anyway, have I ever had completely untrue memories? There were just blank or dark spots before, nothing that was actually _false._ I remember it so clearly now… she whispered in my ear, sipped champagne as she was taunting me…” he shuddered.

Sherlock didn’t reply, so John went on. “Remember how you said once that you looked at Mary again after she revealed herself, and you saw what you had missed about her? Use your mind palace to do the same thing with Daphne.”

Sherlock watched him for a moment, contemplating. John had remembered more details than he ever had previously, and he did seem thoroughly convinced.

“Alright, John,” he said indulgently, walking into the living room to sit in his chair. “I’ll try.”

Closing his eyes, he retreated into his mind. Everything went quiet, and the real world faded from his senses.

His mind palace spread out before him, and Sherlock paused for a moment before he started forward. He walked down the giant, ornate hallway to the room where he had stored his memories of Daphne.

She stood before him, her overly-bright smile and flight attendant uniform masquerading her true purpose. He had realized almost immediately that she was hiding something, but then she had admitted that she was Mycroft’s. Sherlock had barely thought of (or seen her) since.

Sherlock watched Daphne, circling her. “Who are you?” he said. 

He sorted through his deductions one by one, passing by _dog lover_ , _military training_ , _abandonment complex,_ and _bisexual_.

There were no clues. But something about her had twigged in his brain, something he couldn’t shake loose.

 His mind’s version of John appeared, smiling.“You’re seeing it now, aren’t you?” he asked.

“No,” he replied in frustration. “There’s nothing. No reason at all why she should have even been linked with Moriarty.”

“And that’s the point, isn’t it?” John said. “What is it you say? When you have eliminated the impossible…”

Sherlock frowned, still circling her. “I haven’t eliminated the impossible. Not yet.”

“Well get to it, then _,_ ” John said.

Turning his back on the both of them, Sherlock left the room and headed for the stairwell, down to the deepest parts of his mind-- to the place which he had never yet had cause to visit.

He closed the door behind him, watching the chained figure across the circular room warily. 

“Was it you?” Sherlock asked without preamble.

“Ah, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, raising his ravaged face to look up at him. “Long time no… see. You're looking rather horrible these days."

Sherlock ignored the jab. “You are the real mastermind, not Daphne. You cheated death right in front of my eyes.”

Moriarty laughed harshly. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “That was your problem, wasn’t it? You always wanted everything to be clever. Remember the Crown Jewels? The Bank of England?”

Sherlock stepped slightly closer, still staying far enough away from Moriarty that he couldn’t reach him. “The code was fake.”

“Yes, very good,” Moriarty said, nodding patronizingly. “I’m sure you are familiar with Occam’s razor.”

“The simplest explanation tends to be the right one.”

“Which, in our case, means?”

Sherlock started walking along the side of the room. “It’s much less likely that you could have faked your death than that the real Moriarty wasn’t even there.”

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner!” Moriarty twirled on the spot maniacally.

“Even if you were not the real ‘Moriarty,’ that does not mean it was definitively Daphne,” Sherlock said sourly.

“Oh, but Sherlock, you’re forgetting one thing,” Moriarty said, still looking at the ceiling.

“What?” Sherlock snapped.

“Why couldn’t it be?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That is not enough to convince me."

Moriarty didn’t seem to be paying attention to him anymore, continuing to twirl around and around. “Do you remember when we met, Sherlock?”

As Sherlock watched him, he thought back to their first meeting. Moriarty had come into the lab, introduced by Molly as her boyfriend. Sherlock had known, of course, that ‘Jim from I.T.’ wasn’t all he seemed, but afterward he had barely spared him a second thought. 

Daphne had also passed beneath his notice quietly, but when he had seen her on the tarmac after they landed, there had been something about her that radiated power. Power, yet subtlety.

Moriarty had always been the essence of show and dramatism, which could be explained by the fact that he was an actor. But the real man-- or woman-- behind it all, if it had been someone else, must have had no desire for showmanship. He or she was a creature of the shadows. _She is the spider you could never have dreamed of_. _She always kept herself one step removed from everything._

Despite her patience, her years-- decades-- of planning, Daphne had made one mistake: she had let Sherlock see her with his own eyes. Beneath all the layers of deductions he had made, there was one thing he hadn’t been able to comprehend in her eyes that day, and therefore hadn't truly noticed until now: _hatred._

Moriarty had never hated him. He had loved ‘playing’ with Sherlock, baiting him, watching him dance. Why would another footsoldier have had a reason to hate him?

Sherlock’s eyes flew open. The flesh-and-blood John (who had showered and was now fully clothed) was looking at him expectantly from his armchair, sipping a fresh cup of tea.

“Well?” John said expectantly.

“I believe you.” Sherlock stood, starting to pace back and forth.

John raised his eyebrows. “Well, er. Good. Took you a couple of hours, but at least you got there.”

Sherlock continued to pace. “How many times did you see Daphne during your time in captivity?”

Placing his cup on the side table, John leaned his elbows on his knees. “Just the one. When we were on the plane. The rest of the time I only saw people with masks, but mostly they were men judging from their voices.”

“Tell me everything she said to you, and everything you remember from when you were captured. Now.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

 

 

* * *

John finally finished recounting his tale several hours later, just as dawn was starting to break.

“So?” he said wearily, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes.

“Well, I had already deduced much of it,” Sherlock said, rubbing his top lip contemplatively as he looked out the window. “There is one thing that still disturbs me: why.”

“I told you why."

“Mmm,” Sherlock said noncommittally. He didn’t quite believe that recruiting him was her true motive, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Has she been in contact with you since?” John asked.

“No. After you were captured, the texts stopped.”

“So… what do we do?”

Sherlock stayed completely still, his arms crossed. “Well, for one thing, we cannot get married,” he replied thoughtfully.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see John falter, staring at the ground. “Oh, um. I… okay.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly so that John was in his full sight. He could see the slight slump of his shoulders, the disappointment that John was trying to hide. 

“John."

"It's fine," John said, shrugging.

 

"You don’t understand.” Sherlock strode over, kneeling in front of John and resting his hands on John’s knees. “We cannot marry, not while Daphne remains uncaptured. If she discovers that you have recovered, she will come after us, full stop.”

John covered Sherlock’s hands, nodding. “So… we just keep the engagement secret, just like we have kept my recovery secret. We weren’t planning on getting married just yet, anyway.”

“It could be years.”

“It’s _fine_.”

He could tell John was fighting to keep his expression light.

“No. It’s not fine.” Sherlock stood and walked over to the table that he mostly used as a desk. He rustled through the papers on the table, which had remained undisturbed during his absence, until he found the sheet music with the old version of John’s song. It was the copy that he had scratched out and rewritten over when he was composing, before he had made a clean copy to give as a wedding gift. This copy was imperfect, full of scars, but all the more real and truthful because of it.

“Yes, this will do nicely,” he mumbled to himself, pushing aside more papers to find a pen.

“What will?” John said, walking over.

Sherlock turned over the paper, writing across the top: _The Marriage Vows of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson._

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Marrying you,” Sherlock quipped, finishing the “n” of Watson with a flourish. “We can’t do it publicly, but you said that you wanted a piece of paper, so here it is. It won’t be legal yet, but with two strokes of his pen, Mycroft will make it so.”

John inhaled sharply. Sensing that something was ‘a bit not good,’ Sherlock looked up at John, who was watching Sherlock with disbelief.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, dropping the pen. “I... Forget I said anything, I--”

“No, Sherlock.” John closed the gap between them. “Don’t give me one of your ‘did I do it wrong’ looks.”

Sherlock felt his brow furrow, feeling uncertain.

John smiled up at him. “Stop it. That is the most romantic thing I have ever heard,” he said, pulling Sherlock down into a deep kiss.

Sherlock sighed, pulling him closer by the hips and leaning into the embrace.

At length John leaned back, just slightly. “What should our vows be?” 

“You first,” Sherlock said, stepping back and picking up the pen.

John leaned against the table. “Hmm,” he hummed musingly. “Okay, I promise to love you despite whatever kind of mess you make in the kitchen, and despite the noxious chemicals and/or body parts you put in the fridge.”

“How romantic,” Sherlock said sardonically as he wrote it down.

“Hey, that’s a pretty big one,” John said, crossing his arms. “Now you.”

“I promise to give you lazy morning sex every time you get upset about the noxious chemicals and/or assorted body parts.”

John snorted. “That’s a rather tall order, Mr. Holmes.”

“It’s also a rather self-serving vow, as I benefit from it as well,” Sherlock replied, trying not to grin.

“True,” John said, chuckling. “Okay. Do another one, then.”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, glancing up at John. “I promise never to leave you behind again.”

John swallowed, watching him for a long moment. “Good. Er… good.” He rocked back on his heels slightly, looking at his feet.

“John--”

“And you have to always tell me everything, from now on. You can’t lie to me, not about the big things. Like Daphne,” John said without looking up.

“Yes. I promise,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Good,” John said, nodding.

“Anything else?”

“I will love you forever,” John said. “But that goes without saying.”

Sherlock paused. “Of course. I as well.”

John stepped closer. “Even if I lose my memory again? Even if I don’t remember you, or love you?”

“Especially then. I would remember for both of us.”

John swallowed deeply again and nodded. "Is that it, then?” he asked gruffly.

Sherlock glanced down, nodding. “I believe so.” He signed the bottom of the page, handing the pen to John, who signed it next to him.

“Well, that’s that.” John straightened, beaming up at Sherlock. Sherlock slid a hand around John’s neck, and John tilted his head back for a kiss. Sherlock dipped down to taste John’s lips, a new warmth that he had never felt before blooming in his chest. John was his, now. John was finally, utterly _his._

After quite a while, John finally pulled back. “Can I ask you something, husband?”

“Of course, husband.” Sherlock smiled, feeling the word roll off his tongue with ease. It would take a lifetime for him to stop enjoying it.

John beamed up at him. “When did you know? I know you said once that it was the graveyard… that was when you noticed it consciously, anyway. Maybe this doesn’t make any sense, but when did you… start to feel it unconsciously?”

Sherlock couldn’t help but let what he imagined was a tinge of sadness to enter his expression.

“Sherlock?” 

“When I saw you behind the police tape.”

John laughed. "You may have to be more specific."

“The night after we met."

John's expression sobered, and his eyes flicked over Sherlock's face searchingly. "That early?" he asked softly.

"Yes. Which is precisely why I did not believe it or recognize it at first. I simply did not believe that I was capable of feeling things in that manner.”

John’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he kissed Sherlock briefly, resting their foreheads together. “I didn’t think you could, either. How wrong we both were.”

“And you?” Sherlock murmured.

John sighed. “I think it was the lab, for me. Or maybe the cab on the way to the crime scene when you rattled off those deductions.”

Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward into a grin. “Love at first ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’”

John chuckled lightly, but then he sobered, looking down and shaking his head. “God, so many wasted years. I wish we hadn't let it go so long, don’t you?”

Sherlock sighed, raising John by the chin and pressing a short kiss to his lips.  “I do.”


	18. The Corpse Bride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Erin for being such an amazing sounding board and beta. You all should probably go thank her, because otherwise this fic might not be what it is.
> 
> I'm guessing there will be another 1-2 chapters after this, then an epilogue.
> 
> Enjoy lovelies.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked nervously as he tied on his scarf.

“Will you stop asking me that?” John said, glancing at the pouring rain through the window. “Hmm… maybe you should bring an umbrella…”

“Mycroft’s car will be right outside.” Sherlock shrugged on his Belstaff, glancing at John out of the corner of his eye.

John rolled his eyes. “Jesus,” he said, crossing over to Sherlock and pulling him close. “Stop worrying, okay? We have no idea whether Daphne is even looking for us, and Mycroft has a veritable armada outside. I’m probably the safest person in England right now, including the Queen. Just go solve the fucking case.”

“I wish…” Sherlock said, ducking his head slightly.

John cupped his face. “I know. I wish I could go with you, but she can’t know I’m better, right?If it looks like you are moving on with your life, it might draw her out. Besides, we have shagged on nearly every surface in the flat and even resorted to playing Cluedo, and you’re still bouncing off the walls. You need to go and solve something."

Despite the fact that they had been over this at least three times, Sherlock started to protest, but John silenced him by pulling him down for a long kiss. “Solve a case for me, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered.

Sherlock felt his lips rise into a grin as he pushed John into the wall. “Or,” he purred, starting to leave open-mouthed kisses down John’s throat, “I could stay and shag my husband on one of the yet-unexplored surfaces of the flat.”

“Sherlock,” John said in a warning tone.

“Have you honestly been keeping track? What _surfaces_ have we yet to cover?” Sherlock twisted his hips just so, causing friction between them, and John gasped slightly.

“You have to get going,” he protested, but at the same time he slid his hands beneath Sherlock’s coat to his arse, pulling him closer. Grinning, Sherlock licked into John’s mouth, pushing John’s jumper upward to skim his fingers against his increasingly heated skin.

From behind them, someone coughed pointedly. Sherlock pulled back, cursing silently, to see one of Mycroft’s security men on the landing.

“What?” Sherlock snapped. John giggled, letting his forehead fall against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Apologies, sir,” the man  said, his eyes politely averted. “Your cab is here, and the Detective Inspector was most insistent that you leave immediately.”

Sherlock was about to snap at him again, but John clapped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth.

“Alright, fine, will you just... give us a minute?” John said.

“Yes, sir, of course,” the man said quickly as he fled the scene.

Sherlock glanced back at John, who slowly licked his slightly-reddened lips. His cheeks were flushed, and his jumper was slightly rumpled from where Sherlock had rucked it up… not to mention the slight tenting of his jeans, which was more than a little evident even in the dimly lit hall.

Sherlock peeled John’s hand off his mouth and dipped down to kiss him once more, deeply. He pushed his knee between John’s thighs so that their hips were flush against each other and he could feel both of their hearts pounding. After a few minutes, making a noise of frustration, John finally broke the kiss.

“You’d better go,” John said hoarsely. “Before I tackle you to the landing.”

Sherlock gulped, his eyes raking down John’s body once more, then he turned on his heel and flew down the steps.

There was nothing for it. He was just going to have to solve this murder in ten seconds flat, then come back and shag John up against the wall, right in that very spot.

 

 

* * *

Unfortunately, the crime scene was on the far end of town, and due to flooding and accidents from the torrential rain, traffic was basically at a crawl nearly the entire way. Sherlock ground his teeth, thrumming his fingers against his knee in impatience. He found himself wishing for a different vocation, one which didn’t require him to leave John. Better yet, a different city to live in where there wasn’t so much bloody rain and so many idiotic people who drove like morons.

Sherlock didn’t want to say it to John, but he was secretly petrified of leaving him alone. It was the first time he had let John out of his sight since their return from the facility, and he was yet to be convinced that it had been a good idea. John was right-- it was the best way to draw Daphne out.

After over an hour, the cab pulled in front of a the wastewater treatment plant on the outskirts of London. Sherlock got out to see Lestrade striding over. He shook Sherlock's hand enthusiastically, holding his umbrella over them both. “Sherlock,” he said, joy and sadness fighting for dominance in his expression. “It’s good to see you, mate. It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Greg,” Sherlock said, trying not to smile when Lestrade’s eyes widened.

“How’s… how’s he doing?” Lestrade asked carefully.

Sherlock hardened his visage immediately. “No change,” he said. He had to put on the facade that John was still unwell, even with Lestrade. There were too many possibilities for a leak.

Lestrade shook his head, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, mate. You know you can talk to me, if you need. I have no idea what you’ve been through these past months, but I don’t want you to fall back to… well, you know.”

Sherlock worked his jaw, turning towards the crime scene. “What do we have?”

Lestrade watched him for another moment, then sighed, slumping his shoulders and cocking his head towards the police tape. As they walked, he started to recount what they knew so far, which wasn’t much. 

"They were draining one of the tanks for maintenance when they found her. She was at the bottom-- something about the way the water is treated made her sink, apparently," Lestrade said, wincing slightly. “So you can understand why we wanted to get you here as quickly as possible, because, well--”

“There might not be a body left to examine you leave her in there much longer,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said, raking a hand through his hair. “But I knew you’d want us to leave her where she was found.”

“Hi, freak,” Sally said, cracking a grin as he walked by. “John finally got fed up with you, I see.”

“Nice to see you as well, Sally,” Sherlock replied. Sally ignored the Detective Inspector’s death stare, instead looking shocked that Sherlock hadn’t made some kind of sarcastic remark in response.  

“I’m sorry, mate,” Lestrade said under his breath as they entered the building. “I didn’t think it was my place to tell anyone about him. I’ll tell her not to bring it up again.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said curtly, making it clear that the discussion was over.

There were several men and women around, some Sherlock recognized from Lestrade’s unit, some he didn’t. It was almost surreal to be at a crime scene again after so long. The work, which had once been his highest priority, had been relegated almost to an afterthought.

“Sherlock!” an excited voice exclaimed from behind them, and Sherlock grimaced slightly before he turned.

“Hello, Philip.”

Anderson, who was still sporting a beard, bounded up like an excited puppy and shook Sherlock’s hand. “I knew you’d come back, I just knew it. Didn’t I, Greg? I told you he’d be back. What happened? Where were you this time?”

“Don’t--” Lestrade began.

“I was looking for John. He’d been captured,” Sherlock interrupted, wrenching his hand free and clasping it behind his back.

Anderson’s smile faltered slightly. “Oh-oh god,” he stammered, glancing at Lestrade. “Did you find him?”

“Yes, but he is… unwell. I thought it prudent to leave him in the care of those who can tend to him best.”

Anderson frowned at that, tilting his head slightly to the side. He looked like he was about to say something else, but before he could, Lestrade shook his head venomously and pulled Sherlock away.

“Sorry again,” he muttered, but Sherlock didn’t respond. They walked over to one of the water tanks, where someone was currently taking photographs.

There was a body floating in the water of the nearly-empty tank, mostly decomposed already due to the microbes which were used to rid the fluid of harmful bacteria. There would be hardly any clues left, if any, from the body itself; it would be completely scrubbed clean. What was particularly strange, though, was that the woman was wearing what looked like a wedding gown.

“Get her out,” Sherlock said, standing and walking around the perimeter of the waste treatment tank. There were no footprints or mud around the edges, nothing useful. The water itself had been mostly drained. They may as well have removed the body ages ago.

Two men in full body suits lifted the corpse out, placing it face-up on a tarp nearby. Sherlock pulled on some rubber gloves and started to pull the shreds of a veil away from the woman’s disintegrated face. She looked like...

Sherlock froze.

“No,” he said under his breath, his stomach filling with dread.

Sherlock closed his eyes in silent thanks that John hadn’t accompanied him to the crime scene. His heart was pounding in his ears.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked tentatively. He obviously hadn’t recognized her, because features were half worn away, but there was little doubt in Sherlock’s mind who it was. He'd seen enough skulls to recognize bone structure... and of course, he had seen that face hundreds of times in his nightmares.

Sherlock opened his eyes, making himself do a cursory glance down the body to see if there were any more clues. “I need a DNA test as soon as you can do it,” he said. “Though she might have changed the records…” he muttered. 

“Anderson,” Lestrade over his shoulder. “DNA.”

"Already sent to the lab," Anderson said, walking over quickly. "Do you need anything else?"

Sherlock stood, snapping his gloves off and tossing them to the side. He had to get back to John right away.  “I need some analysis on her clothing too, though I doubt you will find anything conclusive,” he said, striding away quickly and silently cursing himself for not telling the cabbie to wait.

“Sherlock!” he heard Lestrade calling from behind him, but Sherlock didn’t pause in his steps or turn back. He pulled out his phone as he walked, composing a text to John.

_Did you get the saffron? -SH_

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, catching up to Sherlock just as he had gotten back to the road. There were no cabs in sight.

Sherlock whipped back to look at Lestrade. “Can you drive me back to Baker Street?”

“Sure, mate, but-- can you tell me what’s going on? Why the rush?” Lestrade asked, frowning.

Sherlock clenched his teeth together. “Can you take me or not?” his voice was starting to sound a bit shrill.

Lestrade’s forehead furrowed as he nodded. “Alright, Sherlock, but you’re going to explain while we drive.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock snapped as they strode quickly towards the Detective Inspector’s car.

“Sally, I’m off, wrap up here for me,” Lestrade called out as they climbed into the car. “Make sure they rush the results of the DNA analysis.”

“Sir?” Sally walked up to the window, still eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“Just do it,” Lestrade said wearily, turning the ignition.

Once they were driving, Sherlock took his phone out again, but there had not been a response from John yet.

Sherlock glanced over at Lestrade. There were very few people in the world he trusted, and though he loathed to admit it, Lestrade was one of them. Deciding to take the chance, he clicked down to John’s name and pressed call.

The phone rang and rang. Sherlock gripped the dashboard of the car, feeling his knuckles whiten.

Finally, after six rings, John picked up. “Hello?” his voice said. “Sherlock? You okay?”

Sherlock exhaled deeply, covering his face with his hand. 

“Sherlock?” John prompted again.

“Did you get my text? Why didn’t you answer me?”

Sherlock saw Lestrade glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

John snorted through the phone. “Yeah, I saw it. The distress code? Really? You’re being paranoid. You’ve been gone, what, an hour? I’m _fine_ , Sherlock.”

“I’m coming home,” Sherlock said quickly. “Don’t go anywhere.”

John paused, finally seeming to realize that something was amiss. “Okay, what happened?”

Sherlock ignored the question, “I’ll be there soon. Have one of Mycroft’s men come up into the flat with you, and do _not_ answer the door.” Sherlock said, ending the call. He leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, trying to take deep breaths. He should never have left Baker Street.

“Okay, you’re officially scaring me,” Lestrade said. “You’re not… strung out, are you?”

Sherlock glanced up, seeing the care and concern in the DI’s face. “If only it were that simple,” he said softly.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. Sherlock sighed, looking out the window as people scurried through the pouring rain, their umbrellas making them look like hard-backed beetles.  

“The body,” he said, finally.

Sherlock could see Lestrade’s expression of anticipation out of the corner of his eye. “Yes.”

“It was Mary Watson.”

Lestrade glanced at him again. “Okay…” he said slowly. “But she was already dead. How did she turn up in a water treatment plant years later? And more importantly, why?”

Sherlock ran his fingernails over his closed lips. “Her body must have been frozen somehow, and taken out when it was needed and dumped in the water. Needless to say, there’s no murder for you to solve once she’s been identified.”

Lestrade frowned deeply. “Sherlock, who were you talking to on the phone? Something tells me it wasn’t Mycroft.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I haven’t been completely honest with you, Greg.”

 

 

* * *

When they finally pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock jumped out before the car was even fully stopped and rushed inside.

The man on the landing bristled defensively as Sherlock flew up the stairs. “Mr. Holmes--”

“He’s fine,” Sherlock said, gesturing towards Lestrade.

He burst into the flat, and John was sitting in his chair, reading the paper. He looked up expectantly, then frowned when he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. He strode over and collapsed onto John, digging his fingertips into his striped jumper. He pressed his face into John’s neck and just breathed, realizing belatedly that he hadn’t taken a full breath since he had seen Mary’s face.

“Oi, Sherlock, you’re not exactly light, you know,” John mumbled into his hair, though he clasped Sherlock to him tightly, seeming to understand that Sherlock needed reassurance.

“Bloody hell,” they heard from the doorway.

“Oh, hi, Greg,” John said, waving his free hand.

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Lestrade repeated, apparently frozen in place.

“Sherlock,” John said, poking him in the side. “As you can see, I’m still here, and I’m perfectly fine. Can you get up please?”

Sherlock swallowed, unfolding himself slightly and leaning back, but he didn’t get off John’s lap. He clasped John’s face in both hands.

John covered his hands with his own, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes for several long seconds. “Convinced?” he asked.

Sherlock nodded, pulling off his coat as he walked over to the window. There were three cars lining the street, which were obviously Mycroft’s security. He also knew that there were more men in the house directly across from them. No one else was visible on Baker Street; there weren’t even any pedestrians. If Daphne was planning a full frontal attack, they were safe, but that wasn’t her style. Unless she had already recruited all of the security men and was just waiting for the opportune moment...

“John.” Lestrade was still gawking at him, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“How’s it going, Greg?” John said warmly, getting up and holding out his hand. The DI didn’t respond, instead pulling John into a hug.

“What’s with everybody today?” John said in mock exasperation as he hugged Lestrade back.

“It’s good to see you, mate." Lestrade released him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You too,” John said warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tea?”

“Yes, please. Then you’re going to have to fill me in a bit, I think.”

John cracked his sideways half-grin. “I think we can manage that. Just make yourself at home, I’ll be back. Sherlock, will you help me with the tea?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious excuse for them to go into the kitchen alone, but he followed regardless.

John picked up the kettle and turned on the faucet. “I thought you said no one could know,” he hissed under his breath.

“I made a judgment call,” Sherlock whispered, lifting his chin slightly. “Lestrade is trustworthy.”

“You thought _Daphne_ was trustworthy.”

“No, she was Mycroft’s, I never--”

“Semantics,” John said in a hushed tone, placing the kettle on the stove. “I’m not saying I don’t trust him, but _you_ were the one who said we couldn’t tell anyone. Am I allowed to tell Harry now?”

“No,” Sherlock said brusquely. “I had to-- I had to make sure you were alright. This was the quickest way.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John pinched his nose. “You’re being paranoid.”

“I am _not_ ,” Sherlock said petulantly.

John frowned at him. “Okay, seriously, What the hell happened? What changed between--” his face shifted, comprehension starting to filter into his expression. “The crime scene. Something about the body made you panic.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. John was about to say something more when the kettle clicked.

“To be continued,” John said, starting to wash some teacups. “Milk or sugar, Greg?” he called out more loudly.

“Both, thank you,” Lestrade called back.

Sherlock walked up behind him to press his body against John’s. He had an irrational desire to latch on to John and not let go. “Can’t we just get rid of him?” he whispered into John’s ear as he slid his hands lower.

“ _You_ brought him here,” John said, batting his hands away.

Sherlock gave up, walking back over to lean against the window, arms crossed. John gave him a stern look as he brought the tea over to Lestrade, who was sitting on the couch.

Lestrade took his cup, still looking at John curiously. “So… If you don’t mind me asking… what happened to you? And who are you hiding from? Or--” he glanced at Sherlock, “um, can you tell me that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Need-to-know basis, Greg--”

“You’re the one who decided to trust him, Sherlock,” John interrupted, scowling at him. “I’m going to tell him.”

Sherlock scowled back. "Fine, but no details or names."

"Fine." John sat next to Lestrade, resting his elbows on his knees. “And Greg, we have to ask for your utmost discretion, for safety reasons. Absolutely no one can know that I’m here, and that I’m lucid.”

“Of course.”

John looked down at his hands, working his jaw. “I was captured by… enemies… and tortured extensively,” he said. “They injected me with a terror serum, not unlike what we saw at Baskerville.” He swallowed, glancing up at Sherlock. “They used it as aversion therapy to make me hate and fear Sherlock. The side effects of the drug were dementia and psychosis. Basically, I had no idea who I was, but I was terrified of him.”

Lestrade exhaled sharply, glancing up to Sherlock. He looked back with defiance, and Lestrade’s expression softened.

“Jesus,” he swore, rubbing the back of his neck. “No wonder you were such a wreck, mate.”

John’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “You… saw him? When I was in the facility?"

“I saw both of you,” Lestrade said, shifting uncomfortably.

“You did?” John looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged. “I told him I was back in England, and that you were with me, but unwell. He didn’t believe me; I think he thought that you were dead and I had started using again. He insisted on visiting.”

“I only saw you the once,” Lestrade said quietly. “You didn’t seem to recognize me, which makes sense now.”

“I don’t remember…” John said, shaking his head.

“Who captured you?” Lestrade asked after a moment.

John glanced to Sherlock, who shook his head. “We can’t tell you that. Sorry.”

Lestrade nodded. “The important thing is, now you’re okay, right?”

“Yeah,” John said, smiling. “I think I am.”

Lestrade took a sip of his tea. “How did you get better? You were...” he trailed off.

John worked his jaw slightly. “Sherlock played his violin for me.”

Lestrade laughed. “That’s it?”

“More or less,” John said, smiling tightly. "Apparently, the only possible recovery from the effects of the drug is when the victim is reminded of something they once loved."

Lestrade’s expression turned more serious as he glanced at Sherlock, but John changed subjects. “What did you mean, about Sherlock being a wreck?”

Lestrade chewed his lip. “It was like how you were, after Sherlock had jumped. I have never seen him like that, not even after you got married.”

“I’m still in the room, you know,” Sherlock said venomously.

John was still watching Sherlock, his face was a jumble of fighting emotions.

“I had no idea,” he said hoarsely.

Lestrade glanced back and forth between them, suddenly seemed to realize that he was overstaying his welcome. “Well, I’ll be off, then,” he said, clearing his throat and standing up.

“Um,” John shook his head and stood to show him to the door. “Yeah, thanks for stopping by. Remember--”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Lestrade said, shaking John’s hand again. “It really is good to see you, mate.” He smiled again, and walked out of the flat.

John closed the door behind him and turned around to lean back against it.

“I didn’t even think…” he breathed. He hung his head slightly and closed his eyes. “I didn’t even think about what seeing me like that must have done to you. If it had been you, I...” he trailed off.

Sherlock faltered, unsure if he should be comforting John or telling him he was being ridiculous.

Before he could speak, however, his phone pinged twice. Frowning, he pulled it out of the pocket of his jacket.

 

_Did you like my present? It’s no camellia, I know, but they’re out of season._

_Too bad Johnny Boy couldn’t have seen her. I can just see the look on his face. Though he really wouldn’t have remembered who she was, I suppose._

 

Sherlock froze in place, his head spinning. He didn’t have time to respond before another text blinked onto the screen.

 

_Another present is coming soon. You’ll know it when you see it._

 

“Sherlock?” John said tentatively. Sherlock turned around, about to slip his phone into his pocket, but John caught his wrist.

“Nope, you’re not hiding it from me. Remember your promise?” He pointed to the piece of music which he had framed and placed proudly on the mantelpiece-- the back of which contained their vows. “No more lies. Tell me why you panicked at the crime scene and what’s going on with those texts.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, realizing he was trapped. John simply raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I don’t want to cause you more pain,” Sherlock said softly.

John’s forehead crinkled, and he reached up to touch Sherlock’s cheek. “I know, and I love you for that. But we’re stronger when we work together, right? You know we are.”

Sherlock sighed deeply. “Very well. Will you sit down first?” He could at least try to minimize the damage if John had a panic attack.

John started to argue, but he relaxed, dropping his hand. “Fine,” he said, walking over to the couch. Sherlock sat next to him, taking one of John’s hands before handing him the phone.

As John read the texts, Sherlock could feel his pulse increase, and he gripped Sherlock’s hand tighter.

“She’s back,” John said.

“So it seems.”

“It’s not like we didn’t expect this, though…. and it doesn’t sound like she knows I’m better. That’s good, right?” He sounded hopeful, but Sherlock shrugged.

“It could just be one of her mind games. It’s hard to say.”

John paused, chewing his lip thoughtfully. “What about the crime scene?”

Sherlock exhaled. He did promise never to lie again, but that was proving more difficult than he had thought. He let his gaze flick over John, taking stock of his emotional state. 

“I’m going to ask you to try and stay calm, John,” Sherlock said softly, scooting a little closer so that their thighs were touching.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out a bit,” John said. “Get on with it.”

Sherlock paused for another long moment before he spoke. “It was Mary.” He purposefully left out the part about the wedding dress.

John just stared at him blankly, blinking as if stunned. His breathing was somewhat erratic, but it didn’t seem like a full-blown panic attack.

“Mary." He closed his eyes and raised a hand to his forehead as if he had a headache.

“John?” Sherlock pulled John closer until that his head rested on his shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. 

John clutched at his shirt. “I-- I can’t--” he stuttered.

“I’m sorry, John, I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, holding him tightly.

“Why?” John whispered into Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock understood what he couldn’t put to words: _Why would she do that? Why would Daphne steal the body of my dead wife and dump it somewhere years later? Why now?_

And most importantly, most enigmatically, _Why us? Why is she doing any of this?_

“I don’t know,” Sherlock whispered. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

 

 

* * *

Over the two months since their return, Sherlock had observed a pattern in John’s manner of dealing with his panic attacks and nightmares. He had now passed through the first phase (initial shock) to the second (making and drinking tea), and was sitting in his chair in quiet contemplation. Next he would watch some kind of mindless drivel on the telly, and possibly make some food, which he wouldn’t touch. Sometimes in the fourth and final stage he would try to lose himself in Sherlock, pushing away the pain through bodily release. Other times, he didn’t want to be touched for at least a day.

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether this time phase four take the former or the latter form, but for the moment John had given no indication that he wanted Sherlock to be near him. He took the opportunity to sneak back to their bedroom and call Mycroft.

“Yes?” Mycroft answered in a clipped tone.

“Mary’s body was found today, dressed in a wedding gown,” Sherlock said.

There was a lengthy pause. “Mary _Watson_?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What other Mary would I be talking about?”

“That’s… grotesque."

“Daphne also just texted me for the first time since Scotland. She’s obviously trying to get a rise out of me.”

Another pause. “I see.”

Sherlock frowned, pacing back and forth in his room. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked briskly.

Mycroft sighed. “Mary wasn’t the only one of Daphne’s former associates to be found today.”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Richard Brooks.”

“You mean to say, Moriarty?”

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling exhausted. “The man we knew as Moriarty was a fiction she created. Richard Brooks was nothing more than an actor.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft hummed, seeming nonplussed.

Sherlock paused, frowning. “You _knew_?” he snapped.

“I had my suspicions. The body of Richard Brooks confirms them. Now more information has come to light, and I am certain she is, as you say, ‘the true Moriarty.’ Need I remind you that while you sat in that facility for months on end, I was searching for her extensively.” Mycroft cleared his throat. “The body was found at Eala. The old caretaker literally tripped over him, nearly had a heart attack.”

Sherlock stopped pacing again. “Why in god’s name would she leave him there? No one has lived there for decades.”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Possibly she wanted to show how much of our past she is aware of. Why it should matter to her, I have no idea… but then, we have never truly understood her motives, have we?"

“John said she wants to recruit me,” said Sherlock, running his hand through his hair.

“That seems rather too simple, doesn’t it?”

“It does.” Sherlock paced a bit more, thinking. “I’m going to Eala,” he said, finally.

Mycroft paused. “Do you think that prudent?”

“She might have left some clues there. Mary’s body was scrubbed of any identifying information.”

“Daphne has proved repeatedly that she is shrewd enough not to leave anything for you to find.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said grudgingly, “but you forget one important detail: she wants me to find her.”

"Will you be taking John along?”

“I have to.”

“That seems even less prudent.”

“It’s not a choice.” Sherlock walked back down the hall, peeking into the living room. John was now fully reclined on the couch, watching telly (phase three). Sherlock was about to leave again, but John turned to look at him.

“Please, stay,” he said calmly.

That was an aberration. John usually didn’t even notice when Sherlock was in the room during phase three.

“Please?” John repeated, holding out his hand. 

“I have to go,” Sherlock said into the phone before hanging up. He dropped it on the table and put his hands in his pockets.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked without moving.

“Get over here,” John said, turning off the telly and moving slightly towards the back of the couch.

Not needing more encouragement, Sherlock walked over and lay down alongside him. John promptly curled into him, resting his head on Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, simply holding him. If John wanted to talk, he would.

They lay there for at least an hour, and Sherlock basked in the soothing feeling of John's chest rising, of his heartbeat against his own. Eventually the rain stopped, and sun broke through the clouds, slanting golden light through the window. It reminded him of their first morning together, lying on this very sofa.

“I can’t believe it,” John said, finally.

“I know."

“I don’t know how to process this.”

Sherlock swallowed. There was only a slight chance at this point that John could slide backwards into a full blown attack, but he still wanted to be careful.

“The fact that her body was… tampered with?” he asked slowly.

“It wasn’t that.” John sat up slightly so that he could see Sherlock’s face. “It’s that… I hadn’t thought of her, not at all. Not since I was captured. For some reason, it’s like…” he paused, looking downward slightly as he gathered his thoughts. “Everything had changed. The guilt and pain over Mary just didn’t seem to matter anymore. Only you did.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that, but he didn’t have to, because John dipped down for a kiss. Their lips and tongues slid against each other, and Sherlock was careful not to edge it on, not to be too demanding.

John took a breath, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “No matter what happens, what mind games she plays, we are together now, until the end. If we die at her hands, we die together. That’s all that matters to me.”

“I will _never_ let you die at her hands,” Sherlock whispered with conviction.

“Together or not at all,” John said firmly, his piercing blue eyes fixated on Sherlock.

Sherlock couldn’t agree to that, not in so many words, so instead he kissed John again. John made a small noise of agreement in the back of his throat, pushing himself over Sherlock to straddle him. He started unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt, which was the green light.

Sherlock grasped John’s arse, pulling him closer, but John didn’t need any encouraging. He thrust forward slightly, pressing his growing erection against Sherlock’s through their clothes as he kissed Sherlock recklessly. Already gasping slightly for breath, Sherlock responded by untucking John’s shirt and running his hands up John’s back.

Sherlock exhaled, pulling John down to kiss him deeply and wrapping his legs around him. He could feel the tension in both of their bodies starting to melt away as they embraced; a release he had never been able to find in any other way, even through the needle.

“God, Sherlock,” John breathed, dipping down to suck where Sherlock’s throat met his shoulder and unbuttoning his shirt. “We should move to the bedroom--”

“No, here.”

John sat up slightly so that their eyes met. “We don’t have lube out here.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pushing his hand down between the cushions and the back of the sofa.

“What are you--” John started.

Sherlock felt the edges of the object he was searching for, and he pulled it out with a triumphant grin. It was a mini bottle of lube.

“Oh, wow,” John took it from him, smiling. “Did you hide it there on purpose?”

“Please,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “We left it here after--”

“After the day we played Cluedo.” John’s eyes widened as he remembered. The game had ended slightly unconventionally, and most of the cushions from the couch had ended up on the floor, along with the both of them.

John straightened, pulling his shirt over his head. Sherlock unbuckled his trousers at the same time, pulling them and his pants down.

John kicked them off, scooting down the couch slightly to start working Sherlock’s trousers down. He kissed over Sherlock’s black pants, tonguing the budding wetness with apparent relish before working the pants down Sherlock’s hips and tossing them away.

Uncapping the lube, John slicked himself first and poured more on his fingers. He took Sherlock by the base and kissed the head of his cock, starting to work him open at the same time. Sherlock didn’t need much preparation at this point, but John knew just how to bring him to the edge and back again. Sherlock ran his fingernails over John’s scalp, already feeling overwhelmed with sensation, his small gasps seeming to be absorbed into the walls of their flat.

“John,” he gasped, as John pressed inward with a third finger, working them around. He was squirming, trying not to thrust upward into John’s mouth.

Finally satisfied, John climbed up over him, and pulled one of Sherlock’s legs over his shoulder to make the angle deeper.

As he slid in, Sherlock pulled him closer, pushing upward as John tilted his hips and drove downward.

John needed to bury himself in him, to possess him, and for his part, Sherlock wanted to be taken. He savored every way they came together, but this-- the weight of John above him, the feeling of John inside him-- there was nothing else like it.

John was thrusting hard into him now, his belly making friction against Sherlock’s cock with each movement. Sherlock moved to accept him, but mostly he just wrapped his limbs around John as tightly as possible.

He could tell John was getting close, and he tilted his hips up harder to meet John's thrusts. Sherlock felt pleasure radiating from the deepest parts of him and flowing outward, until they both fell over the edge.

Trembling, Sherlock held onto John tightly. “I love you,” he breathed into John’s ear.

“Damn right,” John said, sliding out of Sherlock and looking downward. “Er… that’s going to stain.”

“As if there haven’t been other stains on this sofa,” Sherlock commented, using his shirt to wipe himself off.

John chuckled, taking the shirt to clean himself. “True. I wonder what Lestrade would say if he knew where he had been sitting.”

He settled back down, rubbing the pad of his thumb in circles on Sherlock's hip. “So… what do we do now?”

Sherlock reached down to brush his fingertips down John’s cheek. _  
_

He could leave John behind to keep him safe, but he would never forgive him for it. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again, not after Aberdeen. _  
_

Sherlock swallowed, taking a deep breath. “We are going back to Scotland.”

 

 


	19. The Ugly Duckling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erin, my darling, I love you forever for putting up with me while I worked on this chapter.

“When you said we were going to travel by ‘unconventional means,’ this isn’t _exactly_ what I had imagined,” John grumbled. 

“You wanted to stay together,” Sherlock said, attempting to look innocent. “This way, we are together, and we are hidden from sight.”

“And we will smell like horse for the rest of eternity. I’m actually starting to miss Daphne’s plane." 

The large bay standing directly in front of them stomped his front hoof and whinnied.“Don’t give me that,” John said, grabbing a carrot from the bucket next to him and holding it out. The horse smelled John’s hair, and seemed to decide he was trustworthy, taking the carrot and chomping it down noisily. 

“There’s a good lad,” John said, petting the bay’s nose.  

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.  

“What?” John said. “I’m just trying to make sure we don’t get--” he glanced up at the horse, dropping his voice to a whisper, “--stomped on or bitten in the next eight hours.”

“You do realize that he can’t understand you?” Sherlock said, standing and starting to brush the tangles out of the horse’s mane. “Though Duke is more intelligent than most horses I’ve ridden, I admit.”

“Wait,” John said. “You can ride horses?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I can ride, John.”

“Right, ridiculous question to ask the would-be heir to a Scottish Baronship,” John said sarcastically. “Is he yours?”

“Do you really think I would be so unoriginal as to name my horse ‘Duke’?” 

John laughed. “Well, now that you mention it… no. Whose is he, then?" 

“Mycroft’s. He goes up to Scotland to ride, sometimes, but he usually takes the jet while the horses go up in this trailer.”

“Alright. So where are we going, again?” 

“Eala House, near Aberdeen.” 

John made a 'go on' gesture with his hand. “Why?”

“To view the scene where Richard Brooks’ body was found.” 

John considered this for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. “There’s something else you’re not telling me. Why did Daphne dump his body there? What is this place?”

Sherlock sighed, dropping the brush and sitting down again. “As to the former, I have not yet ascertained the reason. With regards to the latter, it’s a long story, and utterly boring.”

“Well, we have a whole day and nothing but Duke to entertain us. Something tells me he doesn’t juggle or sing.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Very well. Do you recall the fact that my father was disinherited by the family?”

John nodded, seeming more intrigued. “Because he married your mother, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not the whole story.” Sherlock picked a piece of hay out of John’s hair and flicked it away. “In order to leave his Scottish heritage behind completely, he changed his name to Holmes before they married, and she adopted the name as well."

“Wait… he changed his name _to_ Holmes? What was it before?”

“Eala. In Scottish Gaelic, it means ‘Swan.’”

“Okay, so… it’s your dad’s house?”  

Sherlock sighed.“Yes. Well, it’s the house that belonged to my grandfather, Sir William Eala. He and my grandmother were married under the assumption that my great uncle, Andrew Hailsham, would inherit the baronship, but he and his brother both died untimely deaths. The dynasty and name died out.”

“Which left your father the heir,” John rubbed the bridge of his nose, obviously having difficulty with keeping all of this straight. “Isn’t nobility an antiquated concept? Do people even really recognize it anymore?”

Sherlock huffed, leaning his head back against the trailer. “Certain people do. I don’t.” 

“Hmm,” John hummed, watching Sherlock carefully. “And if you ever had a son, would he technically be the next Baron?”

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. John had never brought up children-- not since the fake pregnancy that Mary had fabricated to keep John with her.  

“Yes, I suppose he would,” Sherlock replied cautiously. “If he were my biological son, which is unlikely to occur.”

“Oh?” John said, teasingly.

Sherlock shrugged. “The very idea of having sex with anyone other than you for the rest of my life is abhorrent, and even if that were not true, as I have no intention of ever having sex with a woman--” John snorted, and Sherlock looked at him sternly,“--were there to be a child, it would have to be through a surrogate.”

“That’s… sweet. I think.” John looked out the sliver of a window above them at the morning sunlight. The silence was tense, and an unspoken question hung in the air.

Sighing, Sherlock turned towards John and took both of his hands. “John, I know what you want to ask… but we cannot discuss it.”

“Oh,” John said. "Yeah. Okay."

Sherlock put his hand beneath John’s chin and raised his face.

“Not because I will _never_ wish to discuss it,” Sherlock added, “but because I cannot contemplate it while Daphne is still at large.” 

John nodded. “Right. Of course. Sorry, getting ahead of myself.”

“I want you to have everything, John,” Sherlock said softly. “Even everything that is not within my power to give. I know you have always wanted a family.” 

John looked as though he were trying not to be too hopeful. “Are you serious?”

Sherlock hesitated slightly, checking himself, and nodded. “If-- _when_ \-- we finally find and neutralize Daphne, we can bring this topic to light again.”

Before he could say more, John pulled Sherlock down by the curls to kiss him. Duke whinnied again, but whether it was from annoyance or from approval, it was hard to tell.

 

 

* * *

Seven long hours later, the trailer trundled to a stop. There was the sound of a gate opening, and then the trailer lurched forward again.

Sherlock nudged John, who had fallen asleep. “We’re here.”

John groaned, stretching to crack his back before standing up. He squinted, blinking blearily as he looked out the high window in the gathering dusk. 

“Wait, tell me why you didn’t want to inherit this, again?” John said in awe. “I mean, it’s no _hunting lodge,_ I suppose…” 

Stretching a bit himself, Sherlock stood to join him. He looked out over the estate he had not set eyes on in decades.

House Eala was on a small peninsula that jutted out from the main grassy cliffs over the Aberdeen coastline, exposed to the elements with not even a tree nearby for cover. It was made of dark stone, modestly built in a rectangular plan, and was half the size of Mulchinoch Manor. It had been built in the eighteenth century, updated over the years with more modern appointments. As Sherlock recalled from childhood, however, it was rather drafty in the winter due to the wind whipping off the water. 

“What would I do with it, exactly?” Sherlock said blandly.

“Erm, I don’t know, live here?” 

Sherlock sniffed. “Boring.”

“Oh? Not enough murders to keep you occupied?” 

“On the average, there are only one point seven murders per year in Aberdeen,” Sherlock replied sadly. “And they are usually only a cheating wife or something equally dull.” 

John glanced up at him, then ducked his head to smother the laughter bubbling up from his chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock exasperation.

The trailer stopped again, this time around the back of the stables, and the back door opened. “Mr. Holmes?” a voice called out uncertainly. 

Sherlock turned, but John reached around to press his hand into his chest, shaking his head. 

“It’s just Branson,” Sherlock whispered. 

“How do you know he’s not working for _her_?” John whispered back.

Sherlock chewed his lower lip, wondering how much he should tell John at this point. It was a lie by omission, and he’d promised never to lie to John again… but John showed his emotions too easily. “Because I do,” he said, brushing past John to pick his coat up from the floor. He walked around Duke towards the opening.  

“Mr. Holmes. Doctor Watson,” Branson said formally. He helped them out of the trailer, and Sherlock brushed the hay from his suit. “This way, please. Mr. Andrews will see to the horse. I have rooms prepared for the evening, but I knew you would desire to see the scene first.” 

“Yes, please."

“I thought he worked at Mulchy-neck, or whatever it’s called,” John hissed as they followed Branson towards the house.  

“It’s ‘Mulchinoch,’” Sherlock corrected absentmindedly. “And he works wherever we need him. We have three properties up here, but we saw no need to hire a full service staff for each.”

Branson held open a side door as Sherlock and John entered before closing it behind them.  

“Mr. Grant sends his apologies, but he cannot receive you. He is still recovering from the shock he suffered when he found the body,” Branson said, leading them through the old servants’ hall.  

“Oh, god, is he alright?” John asked.

Sherlock waved a hand impatiently. “He’s fine. Did they take away the body, Branson?”

“Unfortunately, they did, sir,” Branson said apologetically as they ascended the stairs. “But they took photographs.”

Sherlock sighed. Finding useful clues would be nearly impossible after the imbeciles of local law enforcement had compromised the scene.

“He was in here,” Branson said, showing them into the drawing room. “If you will excuse me, I’ll retrieve the polaroids.”

There were still crime scene numbers placed on the rug, but there were no other traces of the body. The only thing out of place in the entire room was that “IOU” had been written in huge block letters on the large mirror over the fireplace. 

“Rather repetitive, don’t you think, Daphne?” Sherlock muttered, walking slowly towards the mantel. He put on some nitrile gloves he had stowed his pocket, then rubbed a small bit of the substance off the mirror. He held it to his nose, sniffing lightly.

“What is it?" John asked from behind him.

“Blood,” Sherlock said, turning around. “Not human.” 

“Jesus,” John said, shaking his head as he looked warily at the letters. “You never told me what ‘IOU’ means. Other than the obvious.” 

“That’s because I have never figured it out,” said Sherlock irritably, snapping off the gloves.

“Here are the photos,” Branson said as he reentered the room, handing them to Sherlock.

Taking up almost the entire frame of the first few photos, Richard Brooks’ body was laid out in a spread eagle, his arms outstretched. There were closeups of his face and details of his arms, on which were sewn what looked like large white feathers.  

When Sherlock got to the last photo, he paused. Two words were written in the simple slant that he recognized as Branson’s handwriting: _Vatican Cameos._  

 _She’s here_ , Sherlock thought. He looked up at Branson, who was watching him calmly.

“The Glenfiddich has been requested,” he said. “Shall I prepare it?” 

After pausing for a fraction of a second, Sherlock nodded. He stuck his hand into his pocket, grabbing the small vial stowed there as he walked over to shake Branson's hand.

“Thank you very much for dealing with all of this… mess,” Sherlock said quietly. The butler nodded curtly, curling his fingers around the vial silently before he disappeared. 

“Sherlock?” 

“She’s taunting me,” Sherlock said, turning back to John and handing him the photos. 

“But…” John started. “What _is_ that?”

“They are swan feathers. And I would wager, if I had the time to analyze it, that the blood on the mirror is also from a swan.”

“Swan,” John mumbled, running his hand over his own forehead. “Didn’t… didn’t you say your father’s old name means swan?” 

Sherlock clenched his jaw slightly. “Yes, I did,” he said, pulling out his phone and thumbing a familiar number.

“Sherlock?” John moved closer to him. Sherlock shook his head in dismissal. 

“Yes,” Mycroft said in a clipped tone. 

“Are Henry and Violet coming to visit? I had planned to make them a special dinner. Roast lamb with mint jelly.” 

Silence for three long seconds. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. Recourse?”

Another pause and a few mutterings in the background. “Fifty minutes is the best I can do. Try to keep her talking,” Mycroft said, then hung up.

“Sherlock, will you tell me what the hell is going on?” Sherlock slipped the phone back into his pocket, walking quickly over to him.

“John,” he said quietly. “There’s not much time, so you have to listen carefully. I have not been completely honest with you.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Oh?"

“I knew that Daphne had lured us here for a reason, but… it appears that my suspicions did not go far enough. She’s here, and I do not know what her plans are. This is your last chance to get out alive.”

John scowled at him. “I’m _not leaving,_ you idiot. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

 _No more time to argue._ “Then do one thing for me, John,” Sherlock said furtively. 

“Will you just tell me what is going--”

“No time,” Sherlock interrupted. He leaned inward to whisper into John's ear. “Do not-- and I mean, _do not_ \-- take anything she offers you to drink.” 

“What… okay. Just,” John cupped his face, pulling him close and kissing him. “I love you. Whatever happens." 

Sherlock was about to respond when they heard the soft _click_ of a bullet round being cocked into its chamber.

“How very sweet. Come along then, if you please, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes,” a woman’s voice said. “She is waiting.”

 

 

* * *

They were stripped of their weapons and led into the biggest room in the house-- the great hall. There was a roaring fire across from them with a single wing backed chair in front of it, but its occupant was shielded from view. There were also armed guards on each wall, all of which looked androgynous at first in their body armor and masks. Upon closer inspection, however, Sherlock could tell that they were all women.

Sherlock observed all of this in a fraction of a second. As his gaze rested on the final figure in the room, however, he stopped abruptly.

His father was tied up to a chair on the side near the large windows, apparently unconscious. A cut on his forehead was bleeding liberally, but otherwise he appeared to be unharmed.  

“Welcome, Sherlock,” Daphne’s silky voice said from the chair. She stood smoothly and turned to face them. She was wearing a pure white, well-fitted dress, her blonde hair falling down in waves. “We finally meet as we truly are.” 

“Where’s Violet?” Sherlock asked calmly.

“Oh, she’s just drugged in her salon. I’ll deal with her later.” She beamed at John. “Lovely to see you again, John,” she said, winking. John clenched his fists at his sides and his jaw looked like it was made of steel, but he didn’t respond or otherwise react. Instead, he watched Henry with his sharp appraising eyes.

“You don’t seem very surprised,” Sherlock said to Daphne.

“Well, you’re not being very surprising,” Daphne scoffed. “What, you thought I didn’t know that John is lucid? Please. Calypso?" 

She snapped her fingers, and a guard near the doorway took off her mask and stepped forward. John gasped slightly, and Sherlock grabbed his wrist. It was Nurse Cummings, the woman who had been in charge of John’s care during his time at the facility.

“I have moles in places you could never have imagined, Sherlock,” she said softly. Sherlock gritted his teeth, but otherwise kept himself wiped of emotion. 

Branson entered at that point, holding a decanter of scotch and three glasses on a tray. He swept in, glancing at Sherlock briefly, before he presented the tray to Daphne. 

She poured herself a glass and took a sip. “Mmm. Glenfiddich forty-year-old single malt. Delicious. Would you like some?” John shook his head, glancing at Sherlock.

Sherlock likewise refused, so she shrugged. “More for me, then.”

Branson bowed before leaving the room, carefully avoiding Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock made sure to scowl at him as he left.

“What, you didn’t realize Branson was mine, too? Tsk tsk,” Daphne said, beaming wickedly. “He was one of my first acquisitions, actually.”  

“What do you want, Daphne?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“What do I…” she began, then she laughed. John flinched at the sound, and a shadow crossed over his face visibly.

“What I want is for you and Mycroft to be ripped apart, seam by seam, until the both of you are destroyed from the inside out.”

"Oh? And how will you accomplish that?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows with clinical disinterest.

“I have been doing it for years. Destroying Mycroft took quite a lot of work, actually. It took a decade to infiltrate his inner circle, but it was worth it. No better way to make him fall on his sword than to show he willingly hired an enemy of the state, a terrorist. But of course, the only way to distract him enough into not realizing who I really am, was through his pressure point-- his baby brother.” She grinned at Sherlock. 

“You were the most fun to play with, Sherlock,” she said coyly. “Starting all the way back when I dangled the name ‘Moriarty’ in front of you. Once I realized that you were in love with John… well, that’s when the real fun began. I decided that the best course of action was to destroy your heart through John, then turn you and Mycroft against each other, and stand back to watch the fallout from afar. Like a nuclear war. But you constantly surprised me. Instead of tapping into your inner darkness, you simply went on pining after John.” She sighed, long-suffering. “And of course, my plan with Mary didn’t pan out, then the drug didn’t last. I had to get creative, adapt--” 

“ _Why_?” John interrupted.

She glanced at him with slight irritation that her diatribe had been interrupted. “Well. That’s the true question, now, isn’t it?”

John glanced at Sherlock, his brow furrowed. Sherlock shook his head. 

“I think it’s time we woke up our other guest, don’t you?” Daphne tilted her head at the guard behind Henry, who took out some smelling salts and waved them under his nose. 

Henry groaned, his head lolling slightly on his neck. His eyes blinked open, and he looked up at Daphne, who was watching like the cat that got the cream. 

She smiled. “Hello, Henry. It’s time to answer for all the suffering you have caused,” she said quietly. 

Henry shifted against his bonds, glancing around the room. “Who are you? What is all this?" His gaze fell on Sherlock and John, and his brow furrowed. "Sherlock? What’s going on?” 

“Stay still, Henry,” Sherlock said. 

Daphne smiled, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were colder than the wind whipping against the house outside.

“Let me tell you a story,” she said. “Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a petty Scottish nobleman who had very little money and prospects. One day, this man met the daughter of a Lord, and they fell in love. The Lord had always doted on his daughter, and eventually he bent to her wishes, and she and the man were married. They later had children, including one son.”

She sipped her drink again. “The Lord died of old age, thinking his legacy would live on. However, both of the Lord’s sons died unexpectedly, and his daughter could not inherit the title, as she was a woman. Her only son, a young boy, became the sole heir. The son had never imagined that he would be thrust into this position, but he was convinced to take on the mantle. Including, years later, to marry the lady Isobel Ualas, daughter of an Earl.”

Sherlock frowned, glancing at his father. Henry had been watching her with confusion until Daphne mentioned Isobel, and Sherlock could have sworn he saw a flash of ancient pain in his eyes.

“He married Isobel out of duty,” Daphne went on. “It happens all the time in those kinds of families. They loved each other, as much as they could in that kind of situation. But not long after they married, Isobel was raped by another nobleman. Unfortunately, because of his peerage, no charges were ever brought against him.”

She wandered over to the windowsill, where rain was starting to pelt down against the ancient panes. 

“Not for the first time in the history of mankind, Isobel was blamed for the rape,” Daphne said bitterly, “and when they discovered she was with child, no one knew whether the child was the legitimate heir or a product of the rape. A great family such as the Hailshams could not have such a scandal darkening their reputation. The widow of one of the Lord’s sons made her aware that she was no longer welcome.”

“She wasn't--” Henry started.

“Quiet,” Daphne snapped viciously. “Don’t speak again.”

Henry clicked his jaw shut, but his brow remained furrowed. 

“Rather than face the disgrace of being cast out, Isobel fled, eventually settling in Wales, where she gave birth to her daughter, Helen. She died soon after of birth complications."

Daphne turned, looking at them with her strangely familiar green eyes. Sherlock glanced over at his father again, and he saw the exact same eyes staring back at him.

“Her husband was told that she and the babe both died. He went on with his life, taking a new name and attending Cambridge. He eventually married another woman, and had two sons, both of them brilliant. He completely forgot about Isobel and her child.” 

“I never forgot about her,” Henry said. “I thought--”

“I said _quiet_ ,” Daphne spat. “ _I’m_ speaking now. Me. You listen to _me._ ” 

 _Abandonment complex._ Sherlock’s mind flashed back to one of the deductions he had made about Daphne from so long ago. It had seemed so inconsequential at the time. _Idiot. Idiot a thousand times over._  

When Daphne spoke again, it was directed solely at Henry, her eyes flashing in anger. “Helen, meanwhile, grew up in orphanages. The only clues to her heritage were the letters her mother had left her. She rose to the top of her class in Oxford, and eventually was recruited to MI6, becoming close to some of the most powerful people in England. She found out everything she could possibly want to know about the family who had cast out her mother. She even had her DNA tested, once the technology became available, to prove that she was the legitimate daughter to the heir. She succeeded in her plans to force one of the sons to disgrace himself and fake his own death, isolating him from the only people he loved in this world. Then, a master blackmailer came across her DNA results and found out her true heritage. He had to be neutralized. She sent her first lieutenant to kill him, and that’s when her original plans fell apart.” 

“Magnussen,” Sherlock said. He heard John inhale sharply.

"Obviously," Daphne said.

“And… by any chance, did Isobel’s middle name start with an ‘O’?” Sherlock asked quietly.

“Oidhche,” Henry said, his eyes not leaving Daphne’s face.

Sherlock swallowed. “Isobel Oidhche Ualas. I… O… U.”

She raised her scotch as if making a toast. “Nice to meet you, brother mine. Father.”  

Henry glanced at Sherlock. “I never… the baby died…” 

“No, I’m quite alive, thank you. I checked,” Daphne said nastily.

“Isobel left before I could stop her. I didn’t want her to leave,” Henry said. “I never wanted--” 

“Shut up,” Daphne snapped. “You don’t get to try and justify what you did. Now it’s your turn. You get to watch your family be ripped to shreds, your sons to fall apart in front of your very eyes. Mycroft is probably being arrested on charges of treason at this very moment. I have only this last plan to carry out.” 

Sherlock returned her cold glare, and he could feel the ripples of anger rising off John like heat waves. John had been grinding his teeth together during this whole speech, and when he spoke, it was in a harsh, low tone. “You actually killed _all_ those people, dozens if not hundreds of innocent men and women, because you had some kind of revenge kick? Mr. Holmes didn’t even know you were alive. None of this was his fault.”

Daphne narrowed her eyes dangerously. There was barely any movement at all, but her entire being seemed to suddenly turn razor-sharp. Sherlock could feel John tense beside him under the scrutiny, and had he been any other man, he would have taken an involuntary step back.

“Revenge… _kick_?” she repeated venomously, starting to move slowly towards him. “I don’t think you quite understand, Dr. Watson. You don’t know what it’s like to have your family stolen from you-- for everything you should have had, everything you should have been, to be ripped from you just because of the arrogance of others." 

“I think I do, actually,” John said bitterly. 

Daphne stopped moving, then burst out laughing. “Oh, but you _do_ , don’t you? Twice over, even. I hope you enjoyed my gift the other day.”

John didn't respond, his fists clenched at his sides. Daphne smiled again and rolled her shoulders back smoothly. “Okay, enough chatting. Time for the real fun to begin."

She signaled to the guards behind them, who stepped forward, each training a gun at Sherlock and John. Daphne turned her back on them, crossing the room to the fireplace. She grabbed the gun that was resting on the mantle, and turned, the sides of her red-lipped mouth sliding upward into a grin. 

“A gun? Really?" Sherlock said. "After ten years or more of planning and playing with us from afar, you’re simply going to shoot all of us? I have to say, I’m slightly… disappointed." As he spoke, he scanned the room for anything that could be used a weapon, but it was difficult to do without her noticing.  

Daphne simply smiled even more overtly, walking towards him. “Oh, no, brother,” she said sweetly. “This is so much more than a _gun_.” She turned it sideways, showing him that it was a handheld tranquilizer gun, rigged to shoot darts filled with a sinister-looking liquid. 

“I took the drug I used to torture you, Dr. Watson, and I weaponized it, sharpened it, perfected it.”

“It seemed rather _weaponized_ before,” John said dryly.

She raised her eyebrows, completely nonplussed. “When I used it on you, it couldn’t yet make the recipient lose their mind irrevocably with a single dose. I’ll admit, I’ve only tried it on a few weaker minds, but so far I have had excellent results. Sadly, your body has built up an immunity to the drug, due to how much we used it against you before, John. There’s only one person who this is meant for.” 

She glanced at Henry. “Are you watching, father?” she asked sweetly. “I want you to see your beloved Sherlock lose his mind. I want you to see the light leave his eyes.” Smiling again, she pointed the gun at Sherlock.

“No!” John made to move towards him, but the guard behind him clicked off the safety of her gun and pressed it into the back of his head. John froze in place immediately, his chest heaving.

“Tsk, tsk, Doctor Watson. Don’t move. That’s a normal bullet, which, I do believe, you are _not_ immune to,” she said, her red lips still pulled into a grotesque grin around her gleaming white teeth.

“Helen,” Henry said, struggling to get up. “I’m the one you really want. I offer up my life in exchange for theirs. Just let my son and John go.” The guard behind him pressed her gun harder into his head and he grimaced. 

“Oh, no, no, no, no. I don’t want to _kill_ you, father,” Daphne said silkily. “I want you to survive, knowing that the people who matter most to you are gone."

Sherlock glanced at his watch while she was distracted. _It's time._

“Say goodbye, little brother,” Daphne said. “The youngest swan has sung his last song.”

“Oh, but we both know that’s not quite true,” Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back.

Daphne frowned, starting to move forward again, but she tripped slightly. She shook her head, raising her hand to her forehead. “What…”

Sherlock walked over to the table and nonchalantly picked up the empty scotch glass. “Branson-- who is not loyal to you, but rather, to me-- alerted me to the fact that you were here. I had him lace the bottle with a tasteless compound that I developed myself. You’ve slowly been poisoning yourself with every sip.”

Daphne frowned. “ _Poison_? How unoriginal," she spat. "I have to say, brother, I’m rather  _disappointed_.”

Sherlock was unfazed. “To take down the biggest criminal mastermind in the world, I had to imagine the simplest thing possible… something that I would have overlooked myself.” He smiled slightly. “But that was always your problem, wasn’t it? You always wanted everything to be clever.” 

“Sherlock, she’s your sister,” Henry said, but Sherlock shook his head, keeping his gaze trained on Daphne’s face. 

Daphne swayed on her feet slightly, her eyes unfocusing just the tiniest bit as the gun dropped from her hand as if her motor skills had diminished. Sherlock picked it up quickly. 

“Boss,” one of the guards said, moving forward. 

Daphne shook her head, stopping her. “Don’t bother. If I know him-- and I don’t think there’s anyone who knows him better-- it’s already too late.” She seemed to be having a hard time staying upright.

“Goodbye, sister,” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Oh, you think you’ve won,” Daphne said, smiling faintly. “Didn’t you know that I would have a backup plan, too?” She made a gesture toward the guards. 

Moving as one, the guards behind them left the room and barred the doors. Sherlock felt the grin sliding off his face. 

“Everything has its time, and everything its purpose, Sherlock,” She said, pulling a small device out of her pocket. “Everything leading to this moment has been linked, like a fine web. It was my masterpiece, my opus. All you have done, which you thought was of your own free will, was in fact orchestrated by me. Even …” she coughed slightly, “Baskerville.” She pressed the button. 

“The air,” Sherlock said. “It’s airborne. Henry, cover your mouth--” 

“It’s too late,” Daphne said, falling to her knees, her eyes drooping. “You’re too late.” She turned, breathing heavily, to look at Henry once more, and fell the ground.

At first Sherlock wasn’t sure anything had happened; he thought the button had been fake. He tried to move toward the doors when he he realized… he couldn’t. His limbs wouldn’t obey.  

Then he felt it. Everything slowed to a standstill, like the volume of the world had been dialed down. 

He was on the floor, and he had no idea how he had gotten there. A strange nothingness started growing in the very center of him, in the middle of his mind palace, like a black hole. One by one, tables, chairs, boards, pieces of the ceiling-- everything started to fall in, every memory, every detail he had stored, one by one falling into emptiness. 

A loud explosion burst through his mind. _Was_ it in his mind? Was it real?

“Sherlock!" 

There were gunshots in the distance.

“John.” 

Coughing, John pulled something heavy off Sherlock and cradled his head in his lap. Everything was spinning, but he focused in on John’s face. Blood streaked down John’s cheek.

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t deduce. The drug continued to rage through his system, eating away at his mind, bit by bit. 

“John,” he managed to gasp again. The emptiness was howling through him, and he couldn’t concentrate. 

“No, don’t talk,” John said, looking around wildly. “What can I do? Tell me what to do.” 

People were talking emphatically in the background, and there was some hurried movement.

 _There’s only one,_ he heard someone saying.

“There’s nothing… you can do,” Sherlock whispered. “I can feel it.”  

John cupped his face, looking down at him in agony. “Shut up. You’re going to be fine.”

“John.” Whole wings of his mind palace were gone, now; the nothingness was sweeping them all away. Sherlock ran to the most sacred wing, to the rooms with the most sunlight. This was where he kept John. 

He shut the door against the growing darkness, but it wouldn’t be enough. Soon it would all be gone. 

 _Give it to him,_ someone said far away. _Do this last thing for me, please._

“Don’t give up, don’t you dare,” John said through clenched teeth. Was it his mind’s version of John, or the real one? They were one and the same now.  

“Listen to me. It might be my last chance to say it.” Sherlock managed, pushing with all his might to keep the doors closed, to keep nothingness away just a little longer. It was unbearably loud, now, pounding away at his skull. 

“No,” John said softly, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Together or not at all, remember?”  

The doors would only stay closed for another moment. He had to say it, one last time. 

 _Say it. Move your lips. Do it_.“I love you,” Sherlock whispered.  

Trembling, John pressed his lips against Sherlock’s, and his world focused into a pinpoint of time and space.

Then the doors in his mind splintered inward, and the nothingness finally overtook him. 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I don’t know for sure whether the Scottish nobility was active enough in the early 20th century that they would actively care about the continuation of titles and such. I assumed that since the English royalty and nobility is still recognized that the tradition was still alive in Scotland as well. As a history major, I generally try to make these things accurate; however, if it’s not, just chalk it up to artistic liberties.
> 
> 2\. Aberdeen does have the lowest murder rate per capita in Scotland, though the actual statistics vary from 0-2 murders per year.
> 
> 3\. The story of Leda and the swan, from which I derived Helen’s story, is from Greek Mythology. Leda was raped by Zeus, who had taken the body of a swan, and Leda gave birth to Helen of Troy from the union. In my story, Leda is represented by Isobel, and Henry Holmes represents the swan, because his name before he changed it to Holmes was Eala (which really does mean “swan” in Scottish Gaelic). So, if she had been recognized by her father, Daphne would have been named Helen Eala. Though Henry didn’t rape Isobel-- another nobleman did-- Henry did father Helen, so the parallels between the stories aren’t perfect. 
> 
> 4\. As you may have noticed, all of Daphne’s associates have had code names from Greek mythology, including Daphne herself- both her real name (Helen) and her fake name (Daphne) are mythological figures. “Calypso” (also known as Nurse Cummings), as well as “Ariadne” and “Phedra,” are also figures from mythology. Their stories are easily googleable, in case you are wondering where they came from. 
> 
> 5\. Final note: I have written some of the final chapter already, so it shouldn’t be too long before an update, but I can’t say for sure when it will be up. Then there will be an epilogue to follow. Thanks to everyone who has continued reading so far!


	20. The Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I lied. There's actually going to be one more chapter after this as well as an epilogue. I was writing this 'final chapter' and it became over 10K words, so I had to split it up.
> 
> Also, thank you SO much for all the comments. I can't respond to them all, but I read every single one, and they all brighten my day.
> 
> Erin is my rock and my OSC.

Black, icy emptiness surrounded him on all sides, pressing down on his chest. Sherlock exhaled, and his breath billowed out in icy furls in front of his face. He curled tighter into a foetal position, closing his eyes and going completely still.

He lay there for hours, days-- an eternity, for all he knew. He couldn't actually remember dying, but he must be dead, because this had to be a hell designed especially for him. It was not endless torture and white-hot pain, but rather simply an endless ocean of nothingness.

"Sherlock," he heard a voice say from far away.

_No, I’m dead. Just leave me be._

“Please.” The voice was louder this time, and with it came a warm breeze, cutting through the freezing air.

He tried to open his eyes, blinking against the biting cold, to seek out the source… but nothing was there.

The tiny breath of warmth was gone again, and the darkness was even more oppressive in its wake. Sherlock curled into a tighter ball.

It was a long time before he heard it again.

“Don’t do this. I need you.”

Sherlock reached toward the sound blindly, searching for something that he couldn’t quite name. Looking upward, he found there was just the tiniest bit of light, now, and he could see that he was in an empty circular room.

The darkness seemed to go on forever above him as his breath curled up from his face.

“Come back to me.”

He closed his eyes again, trying to move. His entire body was frozen, so he concentrated on each toe, each finger, trying to move them until one by one they thawed enough for him to flex them. After hours more, he uncurled slowly, painfully, from his position on the ground onto all fours.

“Sherlock.”

Slowly, achingly, he crawled. When he reached the wall, Sherlock used all his strength to pull himself up to a standing position, his legs trembling weakly underneath him. Breathing heavily, he started walking toward the voice.

Finally he came to what looked like an endless set of stairs. Staring upward, he felt dizzy and weak, and he immediately sank back down to his knees.

“Please, Sherlock,” the voice said faintly.

 _Why? Who are you? What do you want?_ Sherlock tried to scream, but no words came out. It was as if his voice had been ripped from his throat.

Chest heaving, he started pulling himself upward, bit by bit. Pulling himself bodily over every step was agony, but he fought every instinct to stop and rest. 

He climbed and climbed. Stars were born and died, whole universes were created and were silent, and still he climbed.

When there was only one flight left, his arms wouldn’t support him anymore. Sherlock collapsed into a heap, unable to breathe, as his entire body shook uncontrollably.

“I need you…” the air breathed.

Sherlock trembled, looking in the direction of the voice. He tried to stand, failed, and tried again. His foot caught on a large piece of cement and he canted forward, falling hard and not getting up again.

He was broken. It was too much, everything was too much.

He closed his eyes, tears of fatigue trickling down his face. He could feel himself fading again, the darkness overtaking him.

_I can’t. I’m sorry._

“You promised.”

_I tried. It’s too hard. I’m so tired._

“Don’t give up, don’t you dare,” the voice said.  

He shook his head.

“I love you.”

Something uncurled in the deepest parts of him, and he stopped himself from slipping back. Shuddering slightly, Sherlock forced his eyes open again and pulled himself over the wreckage slowly until he made it to the landing. He collapsed into a heap again, panting, as he glanced around.

He could see now that he was in the ruined remains of a building, which looked as if it had been through a bombing. Furniture was overturned and ripped to shreds, whole sections of the structure had crumbled, and there were large pieces of the once-ornate ceiling scattered on the floor.

There was a closed door directly across from him. After resting for several minutes, he pushed himself the last several yards, pressing his palms against it until it creaked open.

Inside was a slightly brighter room, the soft light fading from the ceiling as the sun died. There were tattered curtains blowing inward through the shattered windows, and scattered debris from what was once a cluttered room all over the floor.

Sherlock lay on his side, looking inward. It was the warmest place he had been so far, and the air whispering over his face felt like the exhale from a lover’s sigh.

He scanned the room until he saw a solitary figure standing among the wreckage, turned towards the windows.

Shaking with the effort, Sherlock pulled himself onto his feet again and walked forward. His bare feet crunched over broken glass, bleeding liberally.

The figure finally turned, and Sherlock stopped abruptly, completely entranced. When their gazes met, in an instant everything shifted.

The air changed, becoming softer, warmer, and the sun brightened. At the same time, bits and pieces of the building started to reconstruct themselves.

Sherlock didn't move. As he looked into the deep blue gaze, lost memories flashed before him one by one:

 

He is a young boy, restless, wishing for adventures on the open sea.

Children chant “freak” as he trudges away, shoulders hunched.

Mycroft scoffs at him for wanting to be a pirate, but his father shows him how to navigate by the stars.

Redbeard is taken away, and he curls up in his father’s lap and cries until his eyes dry out.

The waves of deep blue ocean in Capri glint under the silver dawn.

The tiniest bit of liquid beads at the top of a needle.

Cerulean eyes look at him with wonder and a strong, tanned hand passes him a phone.

Taking a deep breath, he jumps off the roof of St. Bart’s.

He watches from afar as a man stands alone at a grave.

He feels a supernova of skin under his fingertips, and watches a slumbering form tangled in the sheets of his bed.

He walks through the highlands of Scotland, which glisten under sheets of rain.

His fingertips press the strings of his violin.

His father’s eyes look at him knowingly.

Blonde hair falls down in waves as red lips drink poisoned amber liquid.

A face above him twists in agony as his mind spirals into darkness, and he feels familiar lips press against his own.

 

Choking slightly, Sherlock reached forward. “John,” he croaked.

John smiled.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock slowly blinked his eyes open. At first he had trouble focusing; the light felt unbelievably bright, but he squinted until his eyes adjusted. The first thing in his line of sight was the bent head of a certain ex-army doctor, his hands clasped over his skull.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” Sherlock rasped.

John’s head snapped up. “What?”

“If you're looking for... baby names.”

John’s face flicked from surprise to confusion as he moved to sit on the hospital bed. He carefully cupped Sherlock’s head in both his hands and checked his pupils. “Sherlock, can you understand me? You’re speaking nonsense.”

“Of course I can understand you, John. Don’t be daft,” Sherlock said in irritation, squinting again. The light and noise felt overwhelming.

“Oh, god,” John said, leaning down to kiss him. “You’re actually alright.” His voice cracked slightly.

“Apparently.”

John’s hands slid into Sherlock’s hair as if to hold him in place, and he leaned down to kiss him again, more deeply this time. It was an embrace of gratitude and reassurance, a release of grief.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled back, grasping John’s hands in his own. “John,” he murmured, wincing again. It felt as though his head had been put into a vice. “I’m alright. I’m here.”

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, taking shuddering breaths. “I thought I had lost you,” he mumbled.

“I thought you had, as well,” Sherlock said, swallowing deeply. “How long was I...?”

“Three days."

“Better than three months, I suppose.” Sherlock’s eyes quickly flicked over John. He looked completely wrecked, and it appeared as though he hadn’t slept in a week. There were dark smudges underneath his eyes, and he was pale, thinner than Sherlock remembered.

“You were worried,” Sherlock said slowly.

John pulled back slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Of course I was bloody worried. I know firsthand what that drug is like, and this was a hundred times stronger. You might never have recovered.”

“How did you counteract it? I should be a vegetable.”

“Mycroft administered an antiserum to you before your mind was lost completely. Apparently, ever since you rescued me from Daphne, he’d had some scientists developing it in secret.”

Sherlock rubbed his temples. “Is Daphne--”

John scrubbed his hand over his face, exhaustion slumping his shoulders. “She’s alive. She only suffered some scrapes and bruises, and was incapacitated enough by that sedative you gave her that they were able to capture her. Why didn’t you actually poison her?”

“I wanted her alive. I want her to suffer, knowing that she failed."

John nodded, his jaw tight. “Mycroft said she’s in the most secure holding location known to man.”

“So her plan to have him arrested for treason didn’t pan out, then.”

“He was able to do some kind of maneuvering before the treason charges Daphne planted were able to take hold… he explained it to me, but it was a bit above my pay grade.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He could tell that there was something John wasn’t saying, something that he thought would be unpleasant for Sherlock to hear. It was as if he was still in withdrawal from morphine; his brain was fuzzy around the edges, and his mind palace was slowly being reconstructed, but it was taking too long. There was something important that he was forgetting.

“There had to have been something else that brought me back,” Sherlock said. “Considering the dosage, my dementia must have progressed almost irreparably in the few minutes it took to administer the antidote.”

“I…” John pressed his lips together, seeming unable to tear his gaze away from Sherlock’s.

Those eyes.

Bits and pieces from his unconscious state started to flow back into his mind, one by one: the blue ocean of Capri, the whispering of tattered curtains in the wind, a warm voice cutting through the darkness...

“You talked to me,” Sherlock said.

As John’s face morphed into a mask of pain, Sherlock could finally see what he had been through in the past few days. It was written in every tense line of his face, every taut muscle of his body.

Sherlock tugged John forward, pulling him toward the bed. John made a choked noise in the back of his throat, but he acquiesced, lying next to Sherlock and pressing their bodies as close together as possible.

“I didn’t know if it would work,” John mumbled into his chest. “I couldn’t play violin for you, but I thought… maybe if you heard my voice…”

Sherlock kissed his forehead, holding him just a little bit tighter.

“I heard you,” he whispered.

John's hand clenched in Sherlock’s hospital gown as his whole body trembled with fatigue and relief.

After a few minutes, John stopped shaking, and his body relaxed. Sherlock thought he had drifted off, but he mumbled into his neck, "How many times have we shared a hospital bed?" 

Sherlock sighed. “Too many,” he admitted.

They lay that way for some time, clinging to each other. Sherlock felt John’s breathing even out, and their hearts slowed as one. There was still something niggling at the back of his mind, something he had forgotten. The fact that he couldn’t remember was frustrating to no end.

Eventually he gave up and closed his eyes, letting his mind begin the long process of repairing itself. After a long time, he drifted into unsettling dreams.

 

 

* * *

He was on his back, the smell of blood and sulfur in his nostrils as the air whistled through the remains of a roof. John was above him, cradling him in his arms.

He could hear, in the distance, two voices, both familiar.

 

_There’s only one. I only had time to make one._

_Give it to him. Do this last thing for me._

_I cannot decide between you._

_Don’t you see? This is all my fault. Give him... the life that was almost stolen from him because of my... mistakes._

_I--_

_Do it. Now, before it’s too late._

 

The voice. He knew that voice.

The grey sky overhead opened, and he could no longer tell which were John’s tears and which were raindrops.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, panic throbbing in his throat. His stomach felt full of hot lead. He had forgotten ( _how, how had he forgotten?_ ) that his father had been in the room with them.

“John. John, wake up.” He shook John lightly.

“What?” John said blearily, his eyes cracking open. “What’s wrong?”

“Where’s Henry?” Sherlock asked, as calmly as he could manage, 

John froze, his eyes widening.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock said more forcefully.

John swallowed, sitting up slightly. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry--”

“No.” Sherlock clenched his teeth, unable to listen to a confirmation of what he already knew.

_Give it to him. Do this last thing for me._

John licked his lips. “Mycroft only had one dose, Sherlock. Henry insisted that he--” 

“John, I will not ask you again. _Where is my father_?” The nothingness was growing in the center of his being again, but this time there was no drug inducing it.

John took Sherlock’s face in both of his hands. “He’s gone, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“What do you mean, _gone_?” 

“His mind was lost. It was too late to save him.”

His chest was heaving, but he wasn’t getting enough air, and black spots were dancing in his vision. Sherlock didn’t reply, but he pushed John back hard enough to get up from the bed.

“Where,” he said, pulling his IV with him as he shuffled toward the door.

“Sherlock, stop, you need to--”

Sherlock rounded on him. “Just, _shut up._ You call yourself a doctor, and you couldn’t even...”

John’s eyes darkened, and his fists clenched at his sides. “That’s not fair, and you know it,” he hissed between his teeth. “I know you’re upset, but just--”

“Stop.” Sherlock shook his head, his mind flashing to the image of his father, tied up, helpless… while he had been arrogant, dancing with Daphne as if it were all a game.

“If you won’t tell me where he is, I’ll find someone who will,” Sherlock snapped, turning towards the door again and walking out of it.

He could hear John swear under his breath and follow, but he ignored him.

A nurse trotted over quickly. “Mr. Holmes, you should be in bed--”

“Where is my father? Take me to him,” Sherlock interrupted.

Her eyes widened, and she glanced at John.

“No, he does not decide this,” Sherlock snapped. “Take me to Henry, _now_ , or I can assure you that this will not end well for you.” She turned white, glancing at John again, but she nodded. She led him to a door not far down the hall and held it open for him. Glaring at her, Sherlock limped forward with John in tow.

Henry was sitting on a hospital bed, staring forward blankly. The telly was on, playing some kind of inane children’s programme, but he wasn’t watching; his eyes were unfocused, and his body looked limp, as though the life had gone out of it.

Sherlock could already tell that his father was gone.

“Sherlock,” John said from behind him, trying to take his hand. Sherlock wrenched it away, walking forward slowly to sit in a chair next to the bed.

Henry continued to look forward blankly, a bit of drool on the side of his chin. Sherlock took a flannel from the side table and wiped it off, then carefully took one of Henry’s hands in both of his.

“Henry,” he said softly. “Can you hear me?” He didn’t expect a response, but when the man in front of him didn’t blink or otherwise acknowledge his presence, the molten lead in his stomach hardened. It was so much worse than John had been, so much worse than he could have imagined. Henry was gone.

Sherlock didn’t even notice that John had left the room until another, heavier pair of feet entered.

Sherlock clenched his teeth again, but he didn’t move. “Get out.”

Mycroft didn’t answer, walking around the bed until he was facing Sherlock. Slowly, Sherlock raised his gaze to meet Mycroft’s, the anger seething through him.

His brother’s expression was tight, but it seemed that he had prepared for this reaction. “Sherlock--”

“I said, _leave_.”

Mycroft spoke quickly but evenly, as if he had prepared the words ahead of time. “Let me at least explain. There was only one antidote, and he ordered me to administer it to you. I had no choice. You know how he is…”

“Of course you had a choice. There is _always_ a choice.”

“It was Sophie’s choice.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly. Obviously that was some kind of cultural reference he had deleted.

Sighing, Mycroft turned and walked over to stand at the window.

“You can’t even stand to look at him,” Sherlock said bitterly. “Look upon your works, ye mighty, and despair.”

Mycroft turned, slowly, but he didn’t look at Henry. Instead, he met Sherlock’s gaze, and for just a fraction of a second Sherlock saw a flash of pain in his brother’s eyes.

“What would you have had me do?” he asked softly. “If I had given him the drug, you would be the one in this bed, and I would have John and Henry saying the same things to me that you are now.”

Sherlock didn’t move for several long seconds, his jaw clenched. “Where’s Violet?” he asked.

“She had a minor shock when I informed her, but she will be fine-- physically at least. She’s resting.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, bowing his head slightly as his hands clutched Henry’s hand a bit tighter. He could hear Mycroft move around the bed.

“You are not blameless in this, you know. The fault does not lie completely with me.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at Mycroft with an anger laced with guilt and despair-- which he saw returned in his brother’s gaze.

“Leave.” The word had no force behind it. He was too exhausted.

His brother didn’t move for a long moment, then he acquiesced, walking out crisply.

From the hall, he heard John and Mycroft speaking, before Mycroft’s footsteps echoed down the hall and away.

Sherlock knew John was waiting outside, but he didn’t call for him. When he could no longer stand to look at the empty stare in his father’s eyes, he slumped forward until his forehead was touching Henry’s wizened, dry hand.

Sherlock would never admit it aloud, but Mycroft was right. He had been unbelievably selfish. His desire to win, to beat Daphne, had blinded him to the full consequences, the casualties, of his arrogance. He had only thought of keeping John safe, and Daphne had played them like chess pieces on a board. She sacrificed her queen-- herself-- while her pawns were laying in wait to topple his king.

He had saved John, Daphne was captured, and he was alive… but in the end, she had still won. 

After a long time the door opened, but Sherlock didn’t move. He heard John pause at the door, then walk over slowly to stand beside him. He gently put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to leave?” John asked quietly.

Shuddering again slightly, Sherlock looked up at him, a tear falling down his face. 

“No,” he choked out. John didn’t say another word, simply pulling Sherlock to him and holding him tightly. “He’s… John, he’s…” he began, but he couldn’t seem to form a sentence.

“I know, love,” John whispered into his hair. “I know.”

 

 

 

* * *

_One month later_

 

By the time they pulled up to Baker Street, the rain which had been pouring down all morning had finally slowed down to a drizzle. John paid the cabbie as Sherlock went ahead, using his keys to open the door.

John closed it behind them, still looking at Sherlock with concern as he had been all day, but Sherlock ignored him and trudged up the stairs.

He walked straight back into his room, pausing to take off the hateful black suit (he would have to burn it, he could never wear it again) before falling into bed. He heard the sounds of John making tea in the kitchen as he drifted off.

 

* * *

Sherlock awoke in the middle of the night with a slumbering John clasped around his back. He turned over carefully, trying not to disturb him. Their legs were tangled together, and John’s arms still held him tightly.

John’s face relaxed in sleep was a truly beautiful sight. It was one he never tired of seeing, just as he never tired of playing certain sonatas. He reached up to trace the fine wrinkles at the corners of John’s eyes, those lips that he knew better than anything else on earth.

John sighed, shifting slightly. “Sherlock,” he mumbled without opening his eyes.

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly, running his hand around John’s bare back.

John blinked his eyes open. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

His throat constricted slightly, but Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s. John’s mouth parted eagerly to accept him, drawing him closer. 

After a lazy, comforting snog, Sherlock pulled back.

John’s eyes darted over Sherlock’s face. “Will you ever forgive Mycroft?”

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John raised a hand to card through Sherlock’s hair. “He loves you, you know. I could tell he was in as much pain today as you were. And Violet… can’t you see how this is hurting her?”

Sherlock bit his lip. He had been well aware how much pain Violet had been in, and how the icy stares between him and his brother at the funeral hadn’t helped. “I don’t know if I am capable of forgiving him, or myself.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” John said. “You did everything you could.”

“It wasn’t enough.”  _I could have saved him. I was a fool._

John made a noise of disagreement, but didn’t press the issue further.

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than anything. Just tell me what I can do to help. Please.”

Sherlock nestled closer, wrapping himself around him. “You already are.”

John relaxed, holding him closely. For a long while, they simply lay there, neither of them sleeping.

Eventually John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, there’s... there's something I’ve been meaning to tell you for the past month, but I couldn’t seem to find the way to do it.”

Sherlock sat back, resting his head on his hand. John sighed, tracing Sherlock’s cheekbone with his thumb, not quite meeting his gaze.

“After Mycroft administered the drug to you, and you were being loaded into the med evac chopper at Eala… I went over to check Henry. He must not have inhaled as much as you, because it took longer…” he cleared his throat. “I held his hand, and before his mind slipped away, and he said something to me.”

Sherlock frowned. “His mind was disintegrating, John. He was probably just babbling.”

John’s hand slid downward and fisted in Sherlock’s shirt. “Need I remind you that, in what we both thought were your last moments, you told me that you loved me?” John’s eyes flashed with remembered pain.

“Fair enough. What did he say?” Sherlock asked quietly.

John leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “He told me that… ever since you met me, it was as if you had become the man you were always meant to be. He said that he saw how much--” he cleared his throat-- “I love you, and how much you love me, and that…”

“And?”

“And that I had to take care of you for him. Because I was the best chance you had for happiness.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaling deeply. “He always was an eternal optimist.”

John said nothing for a moment, stroking his hair.  “At least… he can rest, now. How he was… it wasn’t living. We both know that firsthand.”

Sherlock shook his head, trying to banish the memory of Henry’s blank stare. “No, it wasn’t.”

John pulled him closer, and Sherlock slid down so that he could nestle into the curve of John’s neck, breathing deeply. For a long time, neither of them spoke. John was the one to break the silence.

“I never knew you loved your father so much. You never spoke of him,” he murmured.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open, looking out towards the window, where the moon was rising. “It had never seemed relevant before.”

“Only you would think that loving your father was irrelevant.”

Sherlock twisted his mouth slightly. “Before you, he was the only one who had ever understood me. Mummy was more like me, more eccentric and intellectual, but she was able to walk among the leagues of normal men and women without standing out. Mycroft has that gift as well, though he chooses to stand apart from most others. Henry was the one who recognized that, despite my intelligence, I was incapable of blending in the way they were. It wasn’t until I was in uni that I realized I was never going to ‘fit in,’ so to speak.”

“Was that when you...”

“When I discovered drugs, yes. Henry would insist on visiting me in rehab, even when I tried to refuse. He never gave up hope that I would be able to alter my patterns. I was aware of how much it hurt him, hurt both of them, but I was too selfish to care what it would do to them if I were to die.”

John’s arms tensed around him. “I didn’t realize you came that close.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I couldn’t understand the wants and needs of the general populace. Life seemed relentlessly boring and pointless, but I would never do something so dull as kill myself. I pulled the wool over my own eyes, and essentially sought death out through recklessness-- first through the needle, then through cases. More times than I could count, I came dangerously close to being the victim of my own exploits. Being on that razor’s edge gave me a high almost more captivating than any drug could have been.”

John pulled back slightly so that he could see Sherlock’s face, his eyes glinting in the half light.

“The cabbie,” John said softly. “You would have done it if I hadn’t killed him. You would have taken the pill.”

Sherlock didn’t look directly at him, but he nodded.

“Why did you stop?” John asked softly.

“I met you,” Sherlock said evenly. “Obvious.”

John frowned. “You still put yourself in dangerous situations after we met, and I followed you.”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “That may be true, but I pulled back from the edge. It was enough, to be with you. I didn't need the drugs, the adrenalin of being close to death-- not as much, anyway.”

“Jesus,” John swore under his breath. “That’s why, after the wedding…”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “But you cannot continue to blame yourself for that.”

“I can’t help it.” John closed his eyes.

Sherlock sighed, skimming his fingertips along John’s bare torso. “You know, Henry said something to me, as well,” he said quietly.

John slowly opened his eyes again. “What?”

“After I fell from the roof of Bart’s, I went to see my parents briefly before I went abroad. My father took one look at me and made me go on a walk with him.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “He told me that I needed to do whatever… I had to do, but that I needed to get back to you as soon as I could. He was right. I should have listened, I should have--”

“We can’t play the ‘should have’ game anymore,” John said softly. “We’ll drive ourselves insane."

“You’re right.” Sherlock reached up to trace John’s lips with his thumb. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just… thank you,” Sherlock said, his voice wavering a bit.

John’s forehead furrowed, and he pulled Sherlock closer until their lips met. Sherlock leaned into the kiss, making a small noise of agreement, rolling up over John and pushing his knee between his legs. John gasped, clutching at Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“Sherlock,” John said between kisses. “Sherlock, do you--” Sherlock rocked his hips against John’s again. John groaned, then pushed Sherlock back slightly by the shoulders. “Are you sure you want this? Today?” he panted.

“Yes, I want you. I _need_ you. Please, John.”

“God,” John breathed, rolling Sherlock down so that he was on top. He pushed Sherlock’s shirt off and leaned down to kiss him deeply, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s. They were both still wearing pants, but Sherlock’s cock was already almost fully erect and straining against the material. John mouthed under his jaw, kissing over his pulse delicately.

“John,” Sherlock groaned.

“I know.” John pushed his own pants down and off, and was about to slide down so that his head was level with Sherlock’s pants, but Sherlock stopped him.

“No,” he breathed. “Just… hold me. Stay.”

John looked at him with a tenderness so intense that Sherlock had to close his eyes.

“Alright. Hips up.” Sherlock lifted his hips as John slid his pants down, and he caged Sherlock in his arms. Sherlock pulled him as close as possible, wanting John’s weight as much on top of him as it could be. John reached down, gathering them both into one hand, and started thrusting upward slowly.

“John,” he gasped again, cupping one hand around John’s neck, the other around the small of his back.

“I’m here, love,” John murmured into his ear.

Sherlock arched into him, feeling his cock sliding against John’s, their sweaty skin allowing them to glide against each other. He wrapped his limbs around John as much as possible, holding onto his one anchor, the one thing left that he truly had feared to lose.

“Please, John. John,” he babbled, not sure what he was asking or why.

“Yes, love, yes,” John breathed. They moved together, their pelvises fitting together perfectly, as Sherlock started to flush and pant.

A particularly hard thrust pushed Sherlock to arch over the bed again, and John’s cock slid underneath him, just under Sherlock’s balls.

“Oh, fuck,” John swore. “Do you want to--”

“Yes, god, yes.” Sherlock reached over to the bedside table, grabbing the lube they kept there and thrusting it into John’s hand.

“Are you sure you don’t want--”

“No. You.” 

John nodded, preparing Sherlock slowly until he was writhing on the bed, then slicking himself. He crawled back up to Sherlock, pushing the head of his cock just inside. Sherlock felt his mouth fall open at the familiar uncomfortable stretch, which quickly bloomed into pleasure. John leaned down and kissed Sherlock deeply, yet sweetly, as he slid in slowly.

Sherlock tilted his hips upward, trying to fuck himself on John’s cock.

“Be still,” John said, his gaze locked on Sherlock’s. He slid backward slowly until he was almost all the way out, then pushed in at a snail’s pace. He reached Sherlock’s prostate, leaving lingering pressure there and smiling as Sherlock let out a long moan again. 

“John,” Sherlock moaned again, apparently incapable of saying anything else. His fingers were digging into John’s shoulders deep enough to leave marks.

“I won’t leave you, my love, I won’t, ever, I promise,” John said, keeping a slow but steady pace. He reached down to stroke Sherlock in a long pull at the same time, and Sherlock pulled him down to press his tongue into his mouth. John was torturing him, but it was also what he needed; a long, slow reminder that he was his and only his.

Sherlock felt the agony of the past month leaking from his body, inch by inch, stroke by stroke. John could take and take from him until his last breath if he wanted, and Sherlock would give it to him freely, but John would never do such a thing. He gave himself to Sherlock just as much.

Sucking over Sherlock’s pulse, John pulled the beading moisture down Sherlock’s cock and wrapped his hand around the base again, sliding his hand slowly but firmly upwards. He pressed in again, and Sherlock felt a moan of desperate pleasure fall from his lips.

There was something to be said for being taken hard and fast, but there was nothing that compared to this: John making love to him, slowly, carefully, uncurling tendrils of pleasure from the deepest parts of him one by one. His gasps and moans echoed through the room, and he almost felt as though they were loud enough to be heard for miles, but he could care less.

“I’m going to--” John panted.

“Yes, come in me, please, I’m there--” Sherlock panted.

Nodding, John thrust into his prostate again, and that was it, he came undone, shouting John’s name into his mouth. John rode him for several more strokes, until he followed, and they collapsed into a heap.

“I love you,” John breathed. Sherlock couldn’t speak for a long moment, his entire body trembling as he held John tightly, unable-- or unwilling-- to let go.

 

 

* * *

Long after John had fallen asleep, Sherlock watched the moonlight arc across his floor.

 _You did everything you could_ , John had said.

Had he, though?

There were few things in his life that he truly regretted, and even fewer that he wished he could change.

In theory, time could be altered. The butterfly effect theory pronounced that a single ripple in time, a single action, could change all of history. If a butterfly was stepped on-- or a single action altered-- the entire stream of a person’s life, or even that of the universe, would change.

The other theory was that time was like a stream of water: if a rock was dropped in its path, the water would simply go around it and flow back to its original course. Time, and history, were unchangeable.

Sherlock thought back on every moment of the past six years, back to his first interactions with John, and the first mentions of “Moriarty.” Daphne had realized early on that John could be used against him, but it wasn’t until they had become _more_ that he became a weapon. If the butterfly theory was correct, the only way he could have changed the outcome and focused on stopping Daphne rather than saving John-- the only thing that could have potentially altered their destiny-- would have been to stop himself from catching John’s hand, back on the stag night. That could have taken them on another path entirely (the butterfly theory) but Daphne may still have destroyed Henry by other means (the stream theory).

And in either of those scenarios, he wouldn’t have John.

If he could change the past, would he choose to do it?

Sherlock looked over at the slumbering man next to him, the light eyelashes fluttering over still slightly-flushed cheeks. No, he couldn’t regret the path that had brought him here, and Henry wouldn’t have wanted him to.

Closing his eyes, he walked into his mind palace, to the large, comfortable room where he had kept Henry. It was dark, now, dusty, full of neglected memories.

It was time to let go.

He breathed deeply, breaking off pieces of his pain bit by bit, and releasing them into the ether. By the time dawn was starting to filter in through the window, he had finally found some semblance of peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Sophie's Choice" refers to a film starring Meryl Streep, which was set during WWII. In the movie, she is about to be separated from her children when she's brought into a concentration camp. A Nazi tells her she can save one of her children, but only one. When she refuses to choose, they try to take both of them away. In her panic, she finally screams "take my girl, take my girl," watching in horror as they cart her daughter away. Her son later dies in the camp, and she is left with her guilt for the rest of her life. She eventually commits suicide with her mentally ill lover.
> 
> I know. It's a very well done movie, though, if you feel like having some more angst in your life.
> 
> 2\. "Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair" is from a poem by Shelley, one of my favorites. It's basically about the hubris of a Machiavellian leader who believed himself unconquerable and built statues to his own glory, only to be lost to the sands of time.
> 
> The full text is as follows:
> 
> I met a traveller from an antique land  
> Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone  
> Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,  
> Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,  
> And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,  
> Tell that its sculptor well those passions read  
> Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,  
> The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:  
> And on the pedestal these words appear:  
> 'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:  
> Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'  
> Nothing beside remains. Round the decay  
> Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare  
> The lone and level sands stretch far away.


	21. The Bittersweet Symphony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it’s finally over. This fic has been six months in the making, and I can’t believe it’s over 90K words. I feel like I’m saying goodbye to a friend, because I have fallen in love with johnlock all over again through writing this fic.
> 
> I have to thank [Hannah](http://bbcjohn.tumblr.com) for encouraging me to put the first chapter on AO3, because without her this would most likely have stayed a little stag night ficlet on tumblr. 
> 
> Thank you to [Nolwenn](http://shinka.tumblr.com) for being my French beta on this chapter.
> 
> And of course, thanks to [Erin](http://bookaddled.tumblr.com) for being the best beta, sounding board, and OSC throughout this process. As you said recently, you have been there when I laughed, when I cried, and when I was so frustrated with writing that I couldn’t put a sentence down. I owe you so much and I wish I could smother you with kisses and drink wine with you to celebrate.
> 
> I also want to thank all of you, my readers. Every single comment, kudo, and hit made me unbelievably happy. I’m so glad that I brought even a few of you joy, because writing brings me so much joy. I’ll still be writing johnlock fics for the forseeable future, so if you enjoyed this, just subscribe to my username. I still have to finish “The things we could be,” and then my next fic is an inception crossover that’s been sitting in my head for about a year now, waiting to be written.
> 
> Another note, I actually went back and did some editing on earlier chapters recently, in case anyone wants to read the fic from the beginning. There’s also a new scene in chapter 7: The Aftermath (right before the scene where John finds him in the crack den), which could be of interest to some of you who read this as a WIP.
> 
> Finally, as some of you noticed, yes, Daphne is still alive. Was that deliberate? Yes, for multiple reasons. Does it mean that there will be another fic in this series? Well, “the game is never over,” especially since I love this universe, but this is it for the time being. 
> 
> Again, thank you all for sharing this journey with me. I hope you enjoyed it even a tiny bit as much as I did :)

 

_Three months later_

 

“Go and finish getting ready, I'll do it,” Mrs. Hudson said, plucking the kettle from Sherlock’s hand and shooing him out. She started to putter around their kitchen as if it were her own, taking out biscuits and cleaning up dirty dishes.

Sherlock eyed the mold experiment he had growing over in the corner with unease. “Don’t throw away--”

“I wouldn’t touch that with a five-meter pole, dear,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted, pursing her lips.

Somewhat mollified, Sherlock turned around to face Harry, who was leaning against the doorframe. “Try and get my brother to hurry up, will you?” she said, smiling.

“You can’t rush perfection,” John called out from their bedroom.

Harry snorted, rolling her eyes, as Sherlock grinned and walked past her.

He entered the bedroom to see John attempting to tie a windsor knot and failing miserably.

“Let me,” Sherlock said, turning John around and undoing the knot.

John didn’t argue, relinquishing control and looking up at Sherlock beatifically, which was rather distracting.

“Stop smiling,” Sherlock said.

“It’s our wedding day. I’ll smile if I bloody want to,” John said, grinning even more broadly.

Sherlock smirked, finishing the tie with a flourish. “There.”

John slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. Sherlock had dressed in his aubergine shirt, which he knew was John’s favorite. “You look…” 

“Dashing?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“ _Ravishing_ was more the term I was looking for.” His hands slid down to Sherlock’s arse.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, cupping John’s cheeks. “We can’t get our clothes wrinkled.”

“Oh really? Well I can think of a few things that don’t involve clothing removal.” John pulled him down for a lingering kiss, then rested his head against Sherlock’s. “I can’t believe…” he trailed off.

“What?” Sherlock whispered.

“You’re mine,” John said simply. His brilliant blue eyes looked up at Sherlock with so much awe and happiness that Sherlock felt it expanding in his own chest.

“Almost,” Sherlock said, his mouth quirking upward slightly.

“Let’s make it legal then, shall we?” John said, smiling.

“Oi, lovebirds, we do have to get going at some point, you know,” Harry called down the hallway.

John groaned, stepping back slightly. "We're coming,” he called out. “Not the right kind, though,” he grumbled.

"I heard that," Harry called even more loudly, and Sherlock snorted.

John grinned as he pulled on his jacket, turning around to adjust his collar in the mirror. He was wearing a new gray suit with a dark blue shirt that brought out the colour of his eyes.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked as he shrugged on his own jacket, his eyes lingering on John’s arse. It looked truly magnificent in those trousers.

“Ready.” They emerged into the hallway to be greeted with the sight of his steely-eyed brother, who was standing stiffly at the top of the stairs. He had one arm outstretched to balance on his umbrella, the other holding a sheaf of papers.

“Good afternoon, John. Brother,” Mycroft said, tilting his head formally. 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said coldly, adjusting his sleeves as he walked into the living room. Harry and Mrs. Hudson were sitting in their armchairs, drinking tea.

“Ah, Mycroft, are you coming to the reception as well?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She put down her cup and stood, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt.

"Mycroft was just leaving,” Sherlock said curtly.

“Sherlock,” John warned, crossing his arms. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, nonplussed.

Mycroft smiled tightly. “I have a peace offering.”

He handed the sheath to Sherlock with a pleased look on his face. Sherlock scowled at him, but curiosity won out, so he took the papers and scanned them quickly. It was a marriage license-- for that date-- with his and John’s names already printed on it.

“All you have to do is sign,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “We were going to do this ourselves.”

John slid his hand around Sherlock’s waist, pretending to look over his shoulder at the papers. “He’s trying,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock looked at John, then down at the license. It was, in the end, just a sheet of paper, the same as the sheet on which they had written their vows… but this was somehow different. He wanted the world to know that he was John’s, and John was his, and that they would be together for the rest of their lives. He’d believed that just knowing they were committed to each other was enough, but he wanted to introduce John as his husband, and for their union to be recognized. And since they would have had to wait for a few more days for it to be one hundred percent official, because of legal processing, he couldn’t even find it in him to be irritated at Mycroft for drawing up the license without his permission.

“Do you have a pen?” he asked quietly, his eyes still on the page. John relaxed, standing back and smiling at Mycroft.

Mycroft took a fountain pen out of his pocket and handed it to him with a flourish. Rolling his eyes at his brother’s smugness, Sherlock took it. As he signed his name, there was something deep inside of him that shifted, subtly, yet permanently, in a way that even the marriage vows they had written months ago had failed to do. He looked up at John, who was watching him with the smile that he reserved only for Sherlock.

As Sherlock handed him the pen, John took his other hand and squeezed it briefly. They looked at each other for a moment, no words necessary.

They were doing this. Really doing it. In a few seconds, they would be married.

For once, Sherlock let his guarded expression slip, letting John see the deep love that he had never thought he could feel in this life, and the awe and gratitude that this incomparable human being wanted to be with him-- not just now but always. John smiled again, and he released Sherlock’s hand, bending down to add his name.

“We need two witnesses,” John said, his eyes still on the page.

“I’ll sign,” Harry said as she strode over and took the pen.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock said.

His brother seemed startled, as if he was unsure whether Sherlock had really addressed him, then walked over and signed as well.

“Well, it’s official. You’re stuck with me,” John said, beaming.

“Thank god,” Sherlock said, pulling him closer. He leaned down to kiss John softly, not really caring that there were other people in the room.

“Isn’t it wonderful? My boys,” he heard Mrs. Hudson say, sniffing into her handkerchief.

“It’s about fucking time,” Harry muttered amiably.

John pulled back, grinning up at him idiotically. “We had better get going,” he said.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said without looking up, unable to tear his gaze away from John’s. “Would you take Harry and Mrs. Hudson ahead? We will follow in a moment.”

“Of course,” his brother said formally, pausing to pick up the marriage license papers. There was a flurrying of movement as the women gathered their belongings, until finally the door closed and they were alone.

“You’re letting him come, then?” John asked hopefully.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. It will make Violet happy.”

John smiled again. “Good,” he said, brushing an errant curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “Okay, so why did you want them to go? All joking aside, we really don’t have time for a shag. Maybe a hasty blowjob, though."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, releasing John and walking over to the skull on the mantelpiece. He picked it up, taking the two small objects out from underneath it, and turned back to John.

“John...” Sherlock cleared his throat and averted his eyes momentarily. He had rehearsed what he wanted to say over and over in his mind, but every permutation of word combinations seemed to fall short of what he wanted to convey.

“As you know, I have never been the kind of man to believe in archaic physical reminders of sentiment.”

He glanced up to see John watching him with confusion and a hint of amusement.

“As we have already been ‘married,’ in our view, for some time, this is rather belated. However…” Sherlock cleared his throat again. “There is nothing I want more than for every person we meet to see that I belong to you, every day for the rest of our lives."

Sherlock took his hand and pressed the two simple white gold bands he was holding into John's palm. John’s eyes widened slightly, and he held them up to look more closely.

“What do they say on the inside?” he asked hoarsely.

“Yours reads, _I asked you for one more miracle_ ,” Sherlock said, moving closer. “And mine, _I heard you._ " He took the slightly bigger band and slid it partway onto John’s ring finger. “If you’ll allow me?”

John swallowed, nodding. Sherlock smiled and slid it on the rest of the way.

“I heard you,” John repeated, blinking a few times.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, suddenly uncertain. “Is it too… I believe the term is ‘corny’?”

“No,” John cut in, looking up quickly. “Stop it, they’re perfect.” Taking Sherlock’s hand, he slid on the other ring.

He looked up at Sherlock again. “You’re my miracle. You always have been. You know that right?”

Sherlock couldn’t speak for a moment, because even after all this time, that gaze made his lungs compress in a way that nothing else could. “And you are mine, John Watson,” he murmured, pulling him close for another short kiss, which John leaned into eagerly until it became much longer.

Eventually John broke away. “I have a gift too,” he said. Releasing Sherlock, he walked over to his desk and took out what appeared to be a book wrapped in paper.

He presented it to Sherlock. “I hope you haven’t deduced what it is already.”

“A book,” Sherlock said. “Obviously.”

“Open it,” John said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock tore the paper away to see that it was, indeed, a book-- by John H. Watson.

“ _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_?” Sherlock read aloud.

“Remember the surprise I started working on, way back in Scotland?” 

“Of course. I deduced that you were writing a book based on _our_ lives,” Sherlock said. “Not mine.”

“I’m in there, too,” John said, stepping closer. “Here.” He opened the book to the dedication page.

Sherlock read the dedication, blinked, then read it again. He tried to keep his expression under control as he looked up again. “John, I--”

“Shh, don’t,” John said, reaching up to run his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock hastily put the book down, clasping John’s face with both hands and kissing him deeply, pouring everything he couldn’t say into the embrace.

John slid both hands into his hair, and they both moved closer until their bodies were pressed together.

At some point he realized that John was saying “I know, I know, love,” in between kisses, which must have been in response to something Sherlock was saying, either tacitly or implicitly, but it didn’t matter which.

Finally Sherlock pulled back enough that he could see John’s eyes, even though his vision was just a little blurry.

“I love you, John,” he said, his voice cracking.

“I know,” John said, his mouth sliding up into a grin.

“I feel that you will never truly know."

John covered Sherlock’s hands with his own. “I _know_ ,” he repeated. John leaned up and kissed Sherlock again, his caresses unhurried yet passionate, because they had the rest of their lives and yet no time at all.

Sherlock sighed, leaning back. “We should leave,” he purred, sliding his thumb over John’s lips.

John groaned. “Can’t we just skip it?”

"We could, but I believe that Angelo has prepared enough food to feed a small army, and Mrs. Hudson would never forgive us. She’s already miffed that she wasn’t there when we made our vows.”

John laughed, kissing him once more before stepping back to adjust his clothes. “All right then. Let’s get going.”

 

 

* * *

They walked into Angelo’s, which was decorated with candles and flowers, to an eruption of excited greetings from Molly, Lestrade, John’s friend Bill Murray and Mike Stamford. Mrs. Hudson was already crying into her handkerchief again and nodding to Violet, who was beaming at them despite the tinge of sadness in her eyes. Harry was to the side, chattering away animatedly at a stern Mycroft.

“I’m so happy for you, mates,” Lestrade said, clapping Sherlock hard on the back. “I always knew you would be a good man someday. It seems that John had to make an honest one out of you first.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “I think.”

“Be nice,” John said out of the corner of his mouth before accepting congratulations from Molly.

“I’m always nice,” Sherlock said, affronted. John rolled his eyes.

Eventually everyone had been greeted, and Angelo had brought around champagne (which Harry refused, thankfully). Sherlock found himself standing up in front of them all, with John at his side. 

“Thank you all for coming,” Sherlock began. “As you all know by now, John and I are married. We had our own private ceremony, but we appreciate you all being here to acknowledge the union.”

Sherlock paused. “I imagine that some of you are wondering why we decided to gather at this restaurant. It was here that John and I shared our first meal--”

“Our first not-date,” John interrupted, grinning.

“You were the one who made that distinction, not I,” Sherlock said, frowning.

John chuckled. “Alright, Mr. I’m-Married-to-My-Work--”

“For god’s sake,” Lestrade said, trying to cover up his laugh.

“They were like an old married couple five years ago, what did you expect?” Molly giggled.

“May I continue?” Sherlock said loudly. “We also chose this date, January 29th, because it is the day on which we met.”

“Thanks for that, by the way, Mike,” John said, raising his glass.

“You’re welcome, mate. Took you two long enough. What’s it been, six years?” Mike shook his head in mock exasperation.

“You could have told us earlier on what you were doing when you introduced us,” Sherlock said, and John elbowed him lightly.

“I thought it was rather obvious,” Mike offered, winking again. Everyone in the room laughed.

"Yes, well." Sherlock bit his lip, glancing at John. “As you also know, this is the second time I have stood up to toast John at his wedding.”

Everyone shifted uncomfortably, glancing at their feet or at John. Sherlock could see John smile tightly out of the corner of his eye.

“From that first speech, it must have been infinitely clear that I was already in love with him,” he went on. “It took me too long to become fully aware of it but… I always had been. I will not bore you with another overly-long speech today, because it would be basically the same as that one.”

He glanced downward briefly. "In essence, I am afraid I will never truly understand how John could have chosen me, but I will spend the rest of my life attempting to deserve him.”

He felt John take his free hand, and Mrs. Hudson let out a muffled sob. Harry had grabbed a napkin from a nearby table to cover her nose, and Molly ducked her head into Lestrade’s shoulder.

"Oh god, not again," Sherlock grumbled.

John squeezed his hand. “You didn't do it wrong," he whispered, smiling. “In case you were about to ask.”

John looked out at their guests, clinking his ring finger against the glass a couple of times, gathering his thoughts. "I don’t have much to say, except…” he glanced up at Sherlock. “You said once that I saved you, but in truth, you have saved me so many times, in every way a person can be saved. I have never been more proud than to you my husband, and as you put it so eloquently, I will spend a lifetime trying to earn that right.”

Sherlock’s hand tightened involuntarily around his, and John smiled up at him.

"But there is only one person that I can truly thank,” he said, looking directly at Violet. “By saving Sherlock, Henry saved me. As many of you know, I was broken, half a man, when I thought Sherlock was gone. I honestly don’t think I could have survived it again. I only wish I could thank Henry myself, and that he could be here today.”

A pregnant pause fell over the room, and Sherlock met his mother's watery eyes.

Mycroft raised his glass. “To Henry,” he said solemnly.

Sherlock nodded, raising his own, and they all drank.

“Now, no more tears, this is a happy occasion,” Violet said, crossing over to them.

She hugged Sherlock, and for once, he let her. “Your father would be so happy for you,” she said into his ear. And if Sherlock’s hand clenched slightly on her shoulder, neither of them mentioned it.

 

 

* * *

There was an enormous quantity of food, a great deal of chattering and congratulations, and far too much cake. Sherlock found himself more than able to tolerate it all, because for the first time in his life, he found that there truly was something to celebrate.

Once night had fallen and the candles were mostly gone, Sherlock called for everyone’s attention again.

“I have a final surprise for John, if everyone would stand to the side, please.”

“I just hope it’s not a corpse,” John muttered, smiling up at him.

Sherlock glared at John as he pulled him to the center of the room.

Once they were ready, he signaled to Angelo. “The music, please.”

Angelo turned on an old CD player, and the first brassy notes of a familiar song started to filter into the room.

 

_I’ll be seeing you_

_in all the old familiar places_

_that this heart of mine embraces…_

 

John looked up at him in surprise, and Sherlock simply held out his hand, bowing slightly. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

John’s mouth slid upwards into a grin. “Say what you will about me, but you’re a hopeless romantic,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand and stepping closer.

Sherlock grinned, and they pressed together, dancing slowly. As they moved, Sherlock closed his eyes, and he could almost imagine that they were back in the dark room in Scotland, a fire crackling behind them, as the wind whistled outside.

 

* * *

The reception finally over, John tried to force a check into Angelo’s hands, which the restaurateur refused to accept. The ensuing argument looked like it wouldn’t be resolved for some time. Sighing, Sherlock took up the duty of saying goodbye to their guests at the door, noting with smug satisfaction that Lestrade was helping Molly with her coat and it appeared that they were leaving together.

Mike made him promise to get a drink soon to catch up, Mrs. Hudson fawned over him for a bit longer, and his mother kissed him once more on both cheeks. Finally the only person left was his brother.

Mycroft walked up slowly, radiating discomfort, which was more disconcerting than his normal haughty and prickly demeanor. He twiddled his umbrella, fixing his eyes on the back wall.

“I would like to offer my sincere felicitations, brother.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clasping his hands behind his back. “Out with it. What do you really want?”

Mycroft lifted his chin slightly, but his eyes refocused on Sherlock’s face. “I have a gift.”

He held out a sheet of paper, but Sherlock didn’t take it, lifting his eyebrows questioningly. Mycroft pressed his lips together and didn’t move until Sherlock gave in. 

“It’s a flight manifest for myself and John on your private jet.”

“Your powers of observation astound me.”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. “I appreciate the gesture, however--”

“The British Consul appears to have been murdered in a Parisian hotel,” Mycroft said casually, brushing an invisible dust mote from his immaculate suit. “The room was locked from the inside, no sign of forced entry. I thought you might find it of interest.”

Sherlock watched his brother for a moment, searching for an ulterior motive and finding none. “Your wedding gift is… a case?”

“Well, yes.” Mycroft seemed slightly ruffled. “Nothing else seemed appropriate. You’ll need to be at the airport in an hour’s time. Your bags are already there, and I have a car waiting for you outside.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and he glanced back at John, who was still talking to Angelo.

John would love this-- to be swept away on their wedding night to a romantic location, and to solve a case, no less.

“Thank you.” The words felt strange in his mouth.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Give my regards to John.”

“I will.” 

Mycroft paused again. “I am... happy for you,” he said haltingly, his face looking slightly strained. “I will admit, I doubted at some points over these past six years that you and John would ever…” he cleared his throat.

Sherlock frowned. “I believe you have told me on multiple occasions that caring is not an advantage. That I shouldn’t ‘get involved.’”

“I was wrong.” Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s stunned look at that admission, glancing back at John. “He has unlocked something in you that I had never hoped to see again. And I believe that father saw it as well.”

Sherlock frowned. “What exactly am I supposed to say to that?”

Mycroft looked back at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Nothing, nothing. Congratulations, again.” He bowed his head slightly in farewell, and then he was gone in a swish of grey silk.

“What was that about?” John said, walking up beside him.

“He gave us a wedding gift,” Sherlock said, not sure whether he should be amused or piqued.

“Oh, really? What is it?”

 

 

* * *

They landed in Paris through a light misting rain and were driven directly to a five-star hotel in the huitèime arrondissement. They left their bags to be taken inside as the manager chatted with him animatedly in French, leading them to the elevator.

Sherlock could see John out of the corner of his eye, and he couldn’t help but smile at the spring in his step, the excitement radiating off his frame. They hadn’t solved cases together in so long that it was almost a distant memory, and John had obviously missed it as much as he did.

“Avez-vous besoin de quelque chose d’autre?” the manager asked as the elevator door opened.

“Non, merci.” Sherlock said distractedly.

The concierge smiled as he led them to the door. “Avec votre permission, l’autre Monsieur Holmes m’a demandé de preparer la suite spéciale lune de miel pour vous et Monsieur Watson.”

Sherlock swirled around, his coat whipping against John, who stopped abruptly.

“La suite…?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised. “Ici?”

“Oui, bien sur. Votre clef,” he said, handing Sherlock a key. “Chambre sept cent quatorze. Félicitations, Messieurs,” the manager said, beaming at John as well before turning crisply to walk back down the hall.

“What was that about?” John asked curiously.

Sherlock glared down the hallway at the manager’s back. “Mycroft.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Later,” Sherlock said. He turned and swept up to the door to the crime scene, where several British Marines were standing outside on guard.

Sherlock started to walk past them, but the soldiers both stepped in front of him.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t let you enter,” one of them said crisply. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“What’s the problem here, Lieutenant?” John said in his military-clipped tone. His entire posture automatically straightened, and his profile sharpened. “Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

The guard straightened his stances automatically and saluted John, simultaneously relaxing the grip on his weapon. “No problem, sir.”

John saluted back. “Then let us enter, Lieutenant.”

“No disrespect, sir. We have orders to keep the scene uncontaminated.”

“Right. Which was so that this man,” John cocked his head toward Sherlock, “could solve the murder.”

The guards glanced at each other. “Sir.”

“So, _is_ there a problem?”

“No, sir.” The soldier still seemed uncertain.

John glanced back at Sherlock, whose mouth twitched slightly. He had always been inexplicably aroused by seeing John pull rank, and this was no exception.

John raised both eyebrows, clasping his hands behind his back as he tried not to grin. Sherlock pressed his lips together and forced himself to look away. He couldn’t get distracted, at least not yet. There was still a case to solve.

“There are already several investigators inside,” the soldier said, still looking at them suspiciously, but no longer barring their entrance.

“Completely incompetent ones, no doubt,” Sherlock said, sweeping in quickly before they could protest further.

They entered the living room of the suite, which was absolute bedlam. Sherlock had been to crime scenes in France before, but he had never investigated a such a high-profile case. It appeared that there was a bit of a disagreement as to whom had jurisdiction.

Sherlock strode up to a graying man who seemed to be a French version of Lestrade, who was currently chattering away with a forensic specialist as well as another British soldier.

“Excusez-moi,” Sherlock said loudly.

The French inspector stopped talking and looked him up and down. “Ah, you must be Mr. Holmes,” he said in perfect English, with just the tiniest lilt of an accent. “Jean Lapointe, a votre service.”

Sherlock shook his proffered hand. “This is my husband, Dr. John Watson,” he said.

“Pleasure,” John said, his mouth sneaking up into a grin as he shook the man’s hand.

“You would like to see the body, I imagine?” Lapointe said amiably, as if he were proposing a walk in the park.

“Oui, s’il vous plait,” Sherlock replied.

The man flashed a smile, indicating for them to follow. “This way, please. He was found in the bedroom.”

“Why was he in here if he was preparing to meet the Belgian Prime Minister?” John asked.

“He was to meet the Minister for tea at four thirty,” Lapointe said over his shoulder as they stepped over the remains of a door. “He had locked the door from the inside to change, and his aides were in the salon. There was no sign of forced entry, no reason to suspect foul play. After an hour the aides finally phoned the police, who had to break the door down, as you can see. His safe was clearly robbed.”

Sherlock took a quick scan of the room. The Consul was on the bed, face down, and had-- quite literally-- been stabbed in the back. His pants and trousers were pulled down to his ankles.

“I need everyone out,” Sherlock said. “Now.”

Apparently Mycroft’s reach extended at least this far, because Lapointe chattered away at the forensic technicians in French and the room was clear in a matter of seconds. Now that it was quiet, he could look around in peace. The windows were still closed and locked, curtains drawn. He walked into the loo, glancing around briefly.

“The aides, where are they?” Sherlock said, pulling on the nitrile gloves he had brought in his pocket.

“They are both being interviewed."

“Both women? No… one man, one woman? Both young? Attractive?”

Lapointe looked at him curiously, then at John. “Yes, how did you--”

“Don’t ask,” John said, crossing his arms. Sherlock walked over to the corpse, picking up the man's hand and sniffing it briefly. He heard the inspector make a strange noise from behind him, but he ignored it.

“He does that,” said John, sounding amused.

“Dr. Watson, cause of death?” Sherlock said, raising his voice.

“You can’t be serious,” Lapointe said in a huff.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “The blade was shoved into his back posthumously,” he said dryly. “See how there’s very little bleeding around the wound? It's also..." He looked closer. "A letter opener, from this suite. They were trying to make it look like he was stabbed in the back, but it was a shoddy job.”

John, who had been checking the victim, nodded. “Yes, he died of asphyxiation, not of the stab wound. See the broken capillaries in his eyes, and the bruising around the neck? Strangulation, most likely.”

Sherlock snapped off his gloves. “The aides were both victims of sexual abuse by this man. They each thought they were the only one, and he was too powerful for them to report him. The Consul must have been assaulting the female aide this afternoon, and male aide heard her struggling, I imagine. He strangled the Consul. It was a crime of passion, mutual self-defense, in a way. Once he was dead, they tried to make it look like a robbery by taking what was in the safe."

“I…” Lapointe looked at them dubiously. “The door was locked, how did they--”

“The woman locked the door from the inside and climbed through the vent back to the salon. The grating in the salle de bain has been dislodged. I assume her skirt is inexplicably dirty?”

Lapointe nodded, looking disgruntled. "She said it was from when they tried to break down the door."

“Bloody fantastic,” John breathed.

Sherlock glanced at him, to see John watching Sherlock with what could only be described as awe mixed with lust. The inspector glanced between them, his eyebrows rising almost to his hairline.

“I assume you will make the proper arrests. Come along, John,” Sherlock said, turning and striding from the room with John close behind.

 

 

* * *

John pushed him inside their honeymoon suite, ripping Sherlock’s Belstaff and jacket off. The buttons from his shirt bounced everywhere as he tore it open.

“Oops,” John said, chuckling as he pushed Sherlock against the wall. “Pity, that’s my favourite shirt of yours.”

“It'll mend,” Sherlock panted. John ground his rapidly-growing erection against Sherlock’s and pulled him down roughly for a kiss. Their tongues tangled together with a ferocity egged on by the adrenaline rush.

“You missed this,” John said between kisses, unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers.

“So did you,” Sherlock said, making quick work of John’s tie.

“Obviously,” John said in an affectation of Sherlock’s tone of voice.

“You haven’t pulled rank in ages.” Sherlock gasped as John pushed his hand down Sherlock’s straining pants. “Since Baskerville.”

“Enjoy it?” John asked, grinning.

“God, yes, couldn’t you tell?” Sherlock said, twisting them around so that John was now against the wall. “Do you have any idea how much I have wanted to do this after all our other cases?”

John bit his lip, watching him with a ravenously dark look, his lips swollen from kissing. Sherlock slid his hands down John’s waist until he was kneeling in front of his now full-blown erection.

“Let me take care of this for you, Captain Watson,” Sherlock said, pulling John’s trousers down. He hooked his finger into John’s pants, pulling them down just a bit, until he could kiss the head of John’s cock.

“Oh my god,” John breathed, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and letting his head fall backward against the wall.

“Not quite,” Sherlock quipped, feeling the rumble of John’s laughter deep in his belly as he divested him of his pants. He took John’s cock by the base, sucking the top slowly, then took him fully down his throat.

He swallowed around John’s cock, feeling his own straining erection pushing against his trousers as he heard John’s desperate moans.

“Christ, Sherlock.” John bucked slightly, obviously holding back. Sherlock nodded infinitesimally, circling John’s hip with one thumb to give permission.

John groaned as his hips tilted forward, thrusting forward into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock moaned, his fingertips pressing into John’s hips as he reached underneath to fondle John’s balls.

“Jesus, that’s bloody brilliant,” John said. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock kept up a good amount of suction, letting John have free reign until he got close to the edge, but not quite there. He held him by the base, pulling his cock out with a soft pop and teasing the frenulum with his tongue, lapping the head with relish.

“Jesus, your mouth is a fucking crime,” John said pulling him up and slamming him against the wall. He peeled off the rest of his own clothes and divested Sherlock of his trousers.

“Is that so, Captain?” Sherlock said, grinning wickedly.

“God, yes,” he breathed into Sherlock’s throat, pushing his hand down Sherlock’s pants to skim his fingers along his cock. “You fantastic, bloody brilliant…”

Sherlock gasped, arching into the contact even more. “John,” he moaned.

“Ah, so it _is_ true,” John said, nipping his earlobe. “You love it when I call you fantastic. It turns you on.”

“Yes, yes, god,” Sherlock squirmed under John’s hands, scrabbling to pull his pants down so that John could have full access.

John smiled slowly, leaning inward to nip down Sherlock’s throat as he grasped their cocks together and started rutting upward. 

“You’re the most brilliant man I’ve ever known,” John whispered into his ear. “You have no idea how hard I get watching you rattle off deductions like that. I’ve had to hide a semi at far too many crime scenes.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned again, scrabbling for purchase against the wall. He finally was able to hold himself in place with one hand on the wall and one on John’s shoulder.

“You’re stunning, dazzling, like the sun… eclipsing everything else,” John went on, “You’re breathtaking, amazing, extraordinary.” He kept thrusting upward, so that their cocks slid against each other with just enough friction. Between John’s hot breath in his ear, the words streaming into his mouth, and sensation of John pressing up against him, Sherlock was overwhelmed.

“John, I’m--”

John didn’t stop, simply snapping his hips upward harder. “You are astounding, phenomenal. God, your mouth, when you’re talking I just can’t stop looking at those lips, especially when you’re saying such spectacular insults--”

“I’m-- I’m--” Sherlock tried to warn him, but he couldn’t seem to form a sentence. His fingers clenched into John’s shoulder.

“That’s it, love,” John murmured, “You’re there, I can feel it, come on.” He sank his teeth into Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock cried out as he spurted over their stomachs, and John kissed him, holding him through his orgasm, as Sherlock went boneless beneath his hands.

Sherlock seemed to have lost himself for a moment, but when he opened his eyes, John was still kissing him passionately, and holding him up because Sherlock’s legs had threatened to give out.

“Come… on…” John said between kisses, pulling Sherlock towards the bed.

Still shaking, Sherlock let himself be manhandled onto the bed, and John lay down next to him. Sherlock cracked his eyes open, still panting, as he realized that John was still hard. John started stroking himself, peppering light kisses over Sherlock’s face, but Sherlock pulled him closer.

“Let me,” he breathed, pushing John’s hand away and stroking him firmly, just the way he knew John liked it. John’s breath turned more ragged, and Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, slowly and deeply, the slide of their lips and tongue gentle yet firm. John moaned into his mouth, one of his hands slipping into Sherlock’s hair to hold him in place.

“You call me amazing,” Sherlock whispered into John’s lips as he started to stroke him harder, trying to push him to orgasm. “But you are the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Sherlock--” John panted. “Please.”

Sherlock leaned forward to nip at John’s lip, and twisted his hand just so, pushing John over the edge. 

 

 

* * *

When Sherlock awoke several hours later, moonlight had illuminated their room through the open curtains, casting it in a silvery glow. He was still tangled in John’s embrace, and he extricated himself carefully to go to the loo. He didn’t bother to cover himself, as it was dark in their room and they were far above the street.

When he came back, he stretched in front of the window. Illuminated as it was at night, Paris was one of the most beautiful sights in the world. He could never foresee leaving London, of course-- no more than he could imagine leaving John-- but there was something about the pulse of this city, its lights, that had a vibrancy like none other.

Sherlock glanced back at the slumbering form of his husband as he walked over to his violin case (Mycroft had conveniently made sure it was on the plane). Sherlock pulled the Stradivarius out, tuning the strings briefly before he placed it on his shoulder. Checking once more that John was dead to the world, he turned to face the window, closing his eyes and starting to play.  

He played the feeling of John fingers sliding the ring onto his hand. He played the sound of John’s voice, breaking through the icy void of his mind. He played the despair of endless months of searching. He played the billowing curls of John’s humid breath next to his in the cold Scottish dawn, and the smell of peat fires. He played the sting of loss and the bitterness of endless longing. He played heartbreak, and redemption. He played the morning sunlight glinting on silvery blond hair, and the briefest touch of a hand on a knee. He played the small curl of a plump lip, and the breathless feeling of being trapped in a blue gaze.

He was so lost in the music that he was unaware that John had awoken until he was directly behind him.

“I will never get tired of hearing you play that,” John whispered, sliding his hands around Sherlock’s waist.

Sherlock sighed, continuing to play as John pressed his nose into Sherlock’s spine and breathed in deeply.

“You are so beautiful,” John murmured into his skin. His hands slid downward, and certain parts of Sherlock 's body started to take an avid interest in the proceedings. He stroked Sherlock's cock in one long pull, and Sherlock felt himself lift up onto his toes slightly.

After several tantalizing strokes, Sherlock gave up trying to play, taking the instrument off his neck. 

“John,” he moaned, dropping his bow and reaching backward.

“Yes, love?” John whispered as his hand slid up Sherlock’s cock again.

“John, I need…” Sherlock gasped. “I need you.”

“Need what?”

“Don’t… tease.”

John chuckled, his breath hot on Sherlock’s neck. “Hands on the window. Legs spread,” he said. Sherlock put the violin down and obeyed quickly.

John left for a moment, and when he came back he dropped something onto the floor next to them. He stroked down Sherlock’s back, leaving kisses the whole way.

“John,” Sherlock groaned softly, not really pleading, just… wanting.

“Shhh,” John said, continuing to leave a string of caresses down Sherlock’s back to his arse. Sherlock was already panting, his cock hard and leaking slightly.

He felt John kissing down his cheeks, and his hands sliding up his thighs at the same time.

“Please,” Sherlock panted, his breath fogging up the window.

He heard another chuckle, and John’s hands were gone. He heard something uncap from behind him, and then John’s finger was broaching him as the other slicked hand moved around to stroke his cock simultaneously.

Sherlock let his forehead fall to rest against the cool glass, breathing heavily. John massaged two fingers, then three, inside him, brushing just barely over his prostate. His other hand kept up a slow but relentless pace on Sherlock’s cock at the same time, until Sherlock on the brink of begging.

Then John’s fingers were gone. “Bend over more,” John said, planting a kiss between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock obeyed immediately. John slid his hands around Sherlock’s hips, pulling him into a position he liked, and Sherlock could feel the head of John’s cock pressing against his opening.

Sherlock exhaled, relaxing his muscles, and John slid in carefully. Once they were fully joined, John didn’t move for a moment, leaving more open-mouthed kisses all along Sherlock’s upper back.

Sherlock groaned, trying to thrust backward and fuck himself on John's cock.

“Wait,” John breathed into his skin, continuing about his work. "Be still."

“ _Please_ ,” Sherlock said, his voice trembling and his legs were shaking from the effort of not moving.  John finally gave in, starting to slide backward and then thrusting back in, slowly.

John held a slow but steady pace, making sure to leave pressure where Sherlock would feel it most. It wasn’t long before Sherlock dropped one hand to start stroking himself.

“No,” John said, batting his hand away. “Wait.”

Sherlock panted, nodding, as John started thrusting harder. Sherlock looked out over the city lights, his whole body feeling like it was being caught in a tidal wave. The sliding of their skin against one another and the pounding of his heart in his ears were the only sounds he could hear.

“I’m going to make you come,” John said, gripping Sherlock by the hair and pulling his face up so that he could meet John’s eyes. "Me, only me. No one else will ever have this, not like me. Will they?” John’s gaze was black with desire, and his face was flushed gloriously. Sherlock whimpered again, and he tried to press his hips backward, chasing that perfect angle.

“Will they?” John said again, thrusting harder into Sherlock’s prostate.

“Yes, you, only you, John,” Sherlock whimpered. “It’s always been you, always.”

“Down,” John growled, pulling out and pushing Sherlock to the ground, which (luckily) was covered in a plush carpet.

John immediately pushed in again, taking him hard and fast, pressing against that sweet spot over and over again, until Sherlock felt himself clenching around John's body.

"Yes, love, yes, come for me," John gasped, tilting Sherlock's hips up just the tiniest bit more. With that, Sherlock was falling over the edge, clinging to John as his orgasm rolled over him in wave after wave, more intense than anything he had ever experienced before. He could feel John coming inside him at the same time, filling him, as he collapsed on top.

They lay there for a long moment, neither of them moving, until John finally looked up at him. He kissed Sherlock slowly, deeply, as he pulled out, and Sherlock gasped again.

John flopped to the floor next to him, his chest still heaving. "That was bloody fantastic," he said, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Sherlock said nothing, feeling as though he no longer had control of his limbs. He simply watched John, his heart still pounding.

John dropped his hands, looking over at Sherlock. "You came without hands," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

"So it seems." Sherlock let his eyes wander down John's body, lingering in certain places.

John grinned. "That's a first, isn't it?"

"I believe so," Sherlock admitted.

“And?” John was still looking at him with amusement.

“You don’t need to fish for compliments, John. As you said, it was _bloody fantastic_."

John chuckled, pulling him close for another lingering kiss, sliding his hands around Sherlock's waist, then resting his head on Sherlock’s chest.

“We should clean off.” John muttered.

“Tired,” Sherlock mumbled.

They lay there for several minutes, and Sherlock almost drifted off, holding John closely. Eventually John groaned, muttering about the stickiness, and went to retrieve a wet flannel to clean them both off before he made Sherlock move back to the bed.

Once they were back on the king sized feather bed, John nestled into his neck. “So now what are we going to do?”

Sherlock cracked his eye open, looking down at him. He knew what John meant. The entire time they had known each other, they had been fighting against Daphne-- whether they had known it or not.

“Now… we live our lives.”

John sighed. "The game is over, then.”

"The game is never over, John. It simply evolves. New players, new pieces, a new playing board."

John propped himself up on an elbow, so he could see Sherlock’s face. "I just hope I'm not a pawn next time,” he said lightly, but there was a slightly dark undertone to his comment. 

"You were never a pawn," Sherlock said, frowning.

John raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You were a rook at least. More accurately, a knight."

"I guess that makes Mycroft the queen."

"As if that were in question."

“Well, I hope that the new 'game' involves a lot of cases and sex. Not necessarily in that order.”

Sherlock smiled. “I think a proper _sex holiday_ is in order, for one thing. I seem to recall you asking me once to stay in bed all day with you.”

“Why not here?” John said. “It is Paris, after all, and we are in a honeymoon suite.”

“Which _Mycroft_ arranged,” Sherlock said distastefully.

John laughed. “Okay, then, where should we go?” he asked, skimming his fingers along Sherlock’s waist. “I would rather it not be Scotland, if it’s alright with you.”

Sherlock snorted. “Well, there _is_ a property of ours that’s not in Scotland.”

“Oh? Another ‘hunting lodge’ that’s as big as a castle?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s a small cottage in Sussex, actually. I’ve only been there as a small child, but from what I recall, it’s remote and rather… cozy.”

“Well, then.” John rolled on top of him, pinning Sherlock’s hands above his head and kissing him soundly. “Sounds perfect. That is, if you don’t mind me keeping you in bed all day except to make tea. There won’t be much else to do, I imagine.”

John’s hair was mussed spectacularly, and his eyes were fathomless blue, contrasting with his kiss-reddened lips. Sherlock’s lips slid into a wide grin.

“I don’t mind.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. There should be an epilogue directly after this that was posted simultaneously.
> 
> 2\. In case you were curious, here is the dedication of John’s book:
> 
> _For W.S.S.H._  
>  _This is the story of two men and their frankly ridiculous adventures-- of murder, mystery, and mayhem. But from now on, there’s another story, a bigger adventure. The most important one I will ever embark upon, in fact._
> 
> _‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’ is the first sentence in that story (and, consequently, in this book), but the end has yet to be written. Despite the fact that we have both been in mortal danger more times than I care to contemplate, I would never hesitate to repeat every moment at your side. Being with you-- the two of us against the rest of the world-- is truly the greatest gift of all. ___
> 
> 3\. The rough translation of the conversation between Sherlock and the French manager is as follows:
> 
> "Do you need anything else?" the manager asked as the elevator door opened.
> 
> "No, thank you," Sherlock said distractedly.
> 
> The concierge smiled as he led them to the door. "With your permission, the other Mr. Holmes asked me to prepare the honeymoon suite for yourself and Mr. Watson."
> 
> Sherlock swirled around, his coat whipping against John, who stopped abruptly.
> 
> "The suite..." Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised. "Here?"
> 
> "Yes, of course. Your key," he said, handing Sherlock a key. "Room seven hundred and fourteen. Congratulations, sirs," the manager said, beaming at John as well before turning crisply to walk down the hall.


	22. Epilogue

_Three years later_

 

John stood several yards back as Sherlock looked out over the misty sea, his dark coat blowing around his legs. Behind them, the wind whistled through what remained of the house, which was still standing in ruins as it had for more than three years.

“Daddy.” The small boy toddled over to Sherlock, tugging on his coat.

“Henry William Watson Holmes,” John said, striding over and picking him up. “How did you get over here so quickly? I told you to leave your dad alone. He’s thinking.”

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said, turning back towards them. There was just the tiniest bit of silver starting to grace his curls at the temples, which he had seen Sherlock frowning at in the mirror a few days earlier (until John had called it dashing, after which he hadn’t seemed to mind as much).

“Case?” Henry said, brightening.

“No, not a case,” Sherlock said seriously, taking Henry from John’s arms.

“Tell me a story!” Henry insisted. He curled his small hand into Sherlock’s hair, though it was unclear whether it was for balance or for emphasis.

“Very well,” Sherlock said. “What story?”

“How about one with a swan?” John offered, his mouth curling upward. Sherlock had never been a huge fan of telling stories, but he was very creative when push came to shove.

Sherlock sighed, his mouth quirking up into a grin to match John’s. He turned back towards the ocean. “Alright. Once upon a time, there was a very lonely swan. This swan thought he had everything he could ever want, because he was very smart, and he was able to see things that other animals were incapable of seeing. So he didn’t know that he was lonely. In fact, he thought he preferred his life of solitude, because he didn’t know any better.”

He glanced back at John, who smiled.

“But he _was_ lonely?” Henry asked, apparently completely engrossed. “Did he find another swan to be friends with?”

“Not quite. One day, the swan was in trouble. A very brave warrior-- a prince-- appeared and saved his life. From that day on, the swan knew that he would never be lonely again, and they had many adventures together. In time, he realized that he loved the prince.”

“Did he tell the prince he loved him?” Henry asked, wide-eyed.

“Not for a very long time,” Sherlock said. “Not until the prince was about to marry a princess, and it was already too late.”

“What happened?” Henry cut in, unable to stand the suspense.

“The princess turned out to be in league with an evil sorceress,” John said, handing Henry his stuffed animal. “And she almost killed the prince.”

Henry apparently wasn’t sure how to respond to this, so he started chewing on the dragon’s wing.

“But together, they defeated them both, and they lived happily ever after,” Sherlock concluded.

“Boring,” Henry drawled, then wiggled to be put down. He started walking on slightly-unsteady feet towards Mycroft, who was standing some distance away, also stoically staring out at the waves. 

“Well, I think we have established thoroughly that he takes after you,” John said good-naturedly, taking Sherlock’s hand.

“No, I think he's more like you,” Sherlock said, continuing to watch the progress of their son.

As Henry reached his uncle, Mycroft looked up at them, but Sherlock quickly turned his gaze back to the ocean.

John sighed, turning as well. “You’ve never fully forgiven him, have you?”

Sherlock didn’t say anything for a moment, but John saw him glance down at their clasped hands. He skimmed his thumb over John’s wedding ring. “I have,” he said. “That does not mean that I still don’t regret it. Being back here...” he trailed off.

“Hey,” John said, grasping Sherlock’s chin and lifting his face. “Henry loved you. He would have wanted you to be happy.”

“I am happy." Sherlock looked appalled that this was even in question.

John smiled. “Good. Now, this prince wants to kiss his swan.”

Sherlock made a face. “That was a ridiculous premise for a story. Why on earth would a prince fall in love with a swan?”

“Apparently the idea was completely plausible to a three-year-old. Not to mention that it’s actually the premise of Tchaikovsky’s _Swan Lake_ …” he said, smiling.

“Hmph,” Sherlock scoffed. “You are always better at telling him stories than I.”

John threaded his hand through Sherlock’s curls and pulled him close, taking brief sips from his mouth. “I could give you some pointers if you like,” he murmured into Sherlock’s lips.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s mouth curled upward.

“Oh, yes,” John said, pulling Sherlock closer until he could feel the entire lanky body against his own. “You forgot the part where the swan saved the prince.”

Sherlock’s face turned more serious, and he looked downward briefly. “You have that the wrong way round.”

“We saved each other,” John said. “That’s the whole point.”

Sherlock looked at him with such unfathomable tenderness that John couldn’t find the space in his lungs to breathe for a moment. He remembered the first time he had seen that look, truly seen it, back on his stag night, after they had been together for the first time.

John raised his face once more, and Sherlock dipped down. The air, cool despite the fact that it was early summer, blew his coat around them, shielding their bodies from the misting rain. He felt as though he would be consumed by Sherlock’s lips, in his touch, his gaze. It never changed, never became less potent, no matter how many years passed.

John pulled back eventually. “Is this when we start living happily ever after?” he asked.

Sherlock glanced up at Henry and Mycroft, who were getting back into a car behind them, then back at John. “There’s nothing I want more,” he whispered, his eyes achingly tender.

John smiled. “Me, too.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all of you, my readers.


End file.
